


Parlour Trick

by Thealmostrhetoricalquestion



Series: The Below World [1]
Category: Shadowhunters (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Canon-Typical Violence, Dimension Travel, Fluff and Angst, Getting Together, Kidnapping, M/M, Magic, Mystery, Not Canon Compliant, POV Magnus Bane, Portals, Slow Burn, Strangers to Lovers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-03
Updated: 2020-05-16
Packaged: 2020-11-22 22:49:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 49,625
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20881949
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thealmostrhetoricalquestion/pseuds/Thealmostrhetoricalquestion
Summary: When Magnus wakes from an enchanted sleep, he runs straight into the youngest son of the Lightwood family—the one that's been missing for five weeks.In between kick-starting a rebellion, returning bratty children to their owners, and ruining a very nice jacket with a ridiculous amount of ectoplasm, Magnus meets Alexander Lightwood.It would be an understatement to say that sparks fly.





	1. A Cranberry Bun

**Author's Note:**

> WARNINGS: There is a character death later on, but it's minor/in the past/and canon. Swearing, mentions of alcohol, and kidnapping, though that's not very expanded on yet. I'll add more tags later if anyone wants me to, but I think that covers it. 
> 
> NOTES: This was for the Big Bang, and since that was cancelled and people still seemed keen on the story, I thought I would post it anyway. I'll do it in chapters, but it's all done. The last few just need another edit! If this is confusing at any point, all will be revealed in later chapters—it's a bit of a mystery/romance!
> 
> ART: The beautiful [art](https://lightwoodbanemlm.tumblr.com/post/188149357094/parlour-trick-by-thealmostrhetoricalquestion) was created by the wonderful lightwoodbanemlm, and I still can't get over how much I love it! A perfect cover!! 
> 
> BETA: Thank you @alistoney for providing wonderful beta-reading. You're a treasure!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Magnus finally wakes from a very long sleep, and gathers his bearings. This includes a rain of glass, a summoned storm, and the chaos of a Market at dawn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh yeah, here we go, let's get this show on the road!! <3
> 
> Changed the summary just to make it a little more kicky!!!

The uneducated and untrained were of the opinion that napping to avoid a war was only a short-term solution. Magnus Bane was of the opinion that these people needed a swift kick and a better bed. 

He woke from one such nap to the first stirrings of trouble in the Market below Brooklyn. His quilt was weighed down with glass beads, and he considered staying hidden beneath it as he listened to the sounds of distant spellfire and the slash of glowing blades. Distant because they weren’t real yet; his long, spiralling dream had not quite faded.

“Finally,” whispered an exhausted voice, almost swallowed by the edge of the dream.

When the dream was gone, Magnus opened his eyes and stared at the sloping ceiling. There was nobody around to see his troubled expression, but he hid it nonetheless as the minutes ticked by. It was second-nature by now, to hide himself away no matter who was looking, and he was afraid of what his face might reveal. He had witnessed dreams like that before, and they rarely led to anything good. Some took him by the hand and skipped merrily with him down a path of drunken debauchery, and some promised the arrival of cold, hungry times. This dream seemed to know nothing but the language of war, and it spoke with promise. 

Magnus blinked at the deep green paint above until his magic woke abruptly. Like a sleeping serpent, in uncoiled with a hiss and flooded his veins with a burning heat. The very last of the dream faded as he shook off the remnants of sleep, and the voice went with it. Familiar, but too distant to pinpoint, and there was no use in trying now. He knew of several people who could travel the realm of dreams, and none of them meant anything good. With a deep sigh, Magnus absconded from bed.

Thrown carelessly across the back of a chair was a shirt that had miraculously survived the taste of time. He set about scolding the wrinkles in the silky fabric while the dusty wireless crackled to life on the dresser, spitting out static. Now that he was conscious, he felt rather peckish, and that seemed more than a good enough reason to stay awake. He could always creep back to bed afterwards, if the world insisted on being boring. 

Through the static on the wireless, several snatches of conversation leaked through. Their voices echoed off the stone walls, banished again by the grasp of ghostly moans and more crackling. White noise was the language of ghosts, and it had been a long time since Magnus listened. He wasn’t about to start now. 

Curious, he reached over to fiddle with the dial on the wireless. A few quick snaps of his magic brought about an elusive channel, one that most people had forgotten existed by now. Within seconds, the unwelcome crackle of white noise was replaced by a Mundane radio station. A man called Steven started to drone. 

Magnus listened reluctantly as he dressed, growing steadily more uneasy, until he accidentally launched the wireless off the radio in his violent search for his favourite necklace. It had gathered a veil of dust while he slept, Magnus noted absently, as he stepped over the smoking remains of the radio, which had somehow caught fire on his descent. A pity. 

In a burst of blue, he was gone. 

Above, in New York proper, politics were busy putting an unkind spin on each morning. The newscasters spewed their rehearsed drivel at eight on the dot, mislabelling their opinions as facts. Carefully researched, they said, and backed by experts. Bullshit and hearsay, said the rest of New York. Above, in New York proper, something had been brewing for years. But Below Brooklyn, in the Market, it was the first morning of trouble. 

Three copper coins were enough to buy Magnus a fresh pot of emerald ink and a hot cranberry bun. He stretched each pleasantly aching limb in the baking sunlight, waiting for the line of customers outside the Odd-Job stall to shrink. The Odd-Job stall had once been a long, narrow table crowded with rotating stock, platters of roasted pork, envelopes just waiting to be sealed, and a pigeon to carry them far. 

In the hot, muddy light of morning, it was more of a jumble sale on a rickety table, manned by only two people. It must have changed management, though the ragged sign propped up against the stall remained the same. When it was just Magnus left in the line, he dropped the coins one by one on the maroon, tasseled cloth covering the stall. They landed with gritty plinks on top of one another, sticking as close as bones. 

The harried stall-keeper scooped them up and clutched them to her chest. “Ya’want ink, right? Emerald or Jade?”

“Emerald, please. And a cranberry bun. Any news of Santiago?” Magnus asked. “The last I heard, he was the right-hand man…” 

“That was bloody ages ago.” 

“I've been a little out of the loop.” Magnus offered her a smile and wondered if it looked as sharp as it felt. “Indulge me?” 

“Not for free.” The stall-keeper watched him like a hawk until he dug a fourth coin out of his pocket and placed it in her greedy hand. She folded her fingers over the gleaming metal with a satisfied smirk. “Santiago used to be the right-hand man, that’s for sure, ‘til he killed the old boss and took over the Right Hand. He’s been remaking it. Him and his bloody clan stormed their lair and started terrorizing folk, set the war forward about eight years to boot.”

Magnus felt his smile freeze in place.

“Made a right bollocking mess of it, too, and now we've got to work twice as hard to keep Guards from taking more than they're owed.” She leaned in, baring her teeth. “They wanna catch the fuckers, see. The Shadowhunters. And they don't care who they step on to find the bloody Right Hand, so long as they’re dead at the end of it. Hurry up, boy!” 

The command was snapped at a haggard boy beside her, drooping behind the stall. There was sweat on his neck and face from working in the baking heat all day, but beneath the sheen were lines of icy blue, scrawled on his skin like miniature lightening. Magnus had seen many marks of many kinds in his lifetime. He knew precisely what these were, and it caught at the frayed edge of his curiosity. 

“No need to rush,” Magnus murmured. 

The stall-keeper and the boy ignored him. His skinny arms shook with the weight of the warming pan; it was a large metal pan with a domed lid that fell away to reveal Castervine Crystals embedded in the surface. Magnus’s eyebrows ticked up, and he found himself impressed despite himself. Castervine Crystals were rare, capable of melting through rubber in six seconds, and steel in seventeen, so the stall-keeper must have had more money than she let on. Magnus wanted one immediately. He had magic enough to set all of the Market alight if he wanted, but there was a certain appeal in novelty appliances that he could never find elsewhere. 

“Here’s your lot,” said the stall-keeper, once she had secreted away her coins. “We don’t do refunds here, so don’t break it.” She grinned, showing blunt, yellowing teeth as she pushed a small parcel into his hands. “Or do, and buy another.”

She had wrapped the bottle of ink in brown cloth and tied it with a length of twine. As though his pocket wasn’t safe enough, Magnus thought with some amusement—as though he didn't have enough power in the space beneath his fingernails to cushion an entire tower of people from danger, let alone keep a measly little ink pot from smashing. 

“I told you to hurry up,” she snapped, turning back to the boy. 

Magnus flipped open his pocket watch in a practiced motion; the heavens shifted all over the glass face in gentle increments, alerting him to the coming meteor shower. It would rain in three days, and he was to have bad luck on a cold night. Bees were still on the decline. 

“And as I said, there really is no need to rush.” With a sigh, Magnus closed the pocket watch and shook his head. “I have all the time in the world.” 

The stall-keeper pushed a lock of dismal brown hair out of her eyes, before rounding on her poor sidekick. Although if Magnus was right about the blue marks, then ‘sidekick’ was too generous a term. The boy heaved the warming pan onto the clear space to the left of the table with a near-silent grunt. The stall-keeper snapped her fingers; sparks flew, and the crystals bloomed like hot embers, coaxed to life beneath the lid. 

It was a paltry form of magic, meant to impress those who didn't know better. A simple parlour trick. Magnus felt a twinge of amusement at the sight; he had been doing those sorts of tricks since before he was five, an age ago. The amusement stayed lodged in his throat until he spotted the boy flinching from a secondary unnecessary snap. His smile dropped. Magic like that wasn’t just used to impress. It could be used to frighten, too. 

“Well?” The stall-keeper bent to spit her words in the boy’s face. “Heat the food up, boy, or you’ll be the next bloody thing to go up in smoke.” 

The boy staggered forward and dropped the bun into the warming pan. It turned golden in an instant, the skin crisping up as the fluffy dough grew thicker, no doubt still soft on the inside. Magnus could smell the sweet tartness of cranberries as they wrinkled inside the dough.

The exact moment when the boy stepped into danger is hard to pin down, but it is safe to say that Magnus saw it coming a mile off. 

When the scent of fresh bread grew heavy in the air, threatening to turn sour, the boy lifted the warming pan from the table. The stall-keepers’ hungry eyes were already fixed on another customer, and she barged into him as she rushed towards the prospect of another sale. Magnus inhaled sharply. Elbows caught on shoulders, so much smaller and hunched than they should have been. The warming pan hit the stall with an almighty crash, upending the contents as the table split roughly down the middle. 

Magnus smoothly side-stepped the oncoming aerial attack, but the boy proved his monstrously bad luck, taking the brunt of inky rain on his tattered shirt. He stood, shaking, in a pool of spilled ink, leather ointment, and shattered glass. Blobs of green tarnished his hair, and his tattered shirt gleamed where bits of glass had clung to it. 

The Market bustled with morning folk, but not one of them stopped to help or stare. Everyone seemed unbothered by the gentle horrors of what must have been a familiar scene. They had been giving this area a wide berth, and Magnus had first assumed that it was because of him, standing there in his gold-trimmed jacket and pointed shoes, but now he wasn’t so sure. As glass finished raining down upon them and nobody moved to help, he was forced to accept that this was far from unusual. 

“Oi! You swine!” The woman staggered away from her wrecked stall, her face wracked with disbelief. Despite her words, Magnus felt the beginnings of sympathy that was quickly erased when she raised her arm. Her bellowing yells blurred into one as she advanced, livid, towards the boy. 

The boy stood firm, but his hands trembled at his sides. Magnus’s eyes sharpened. He felt the hot burn behind the gold in his irises as they narrowed to slivers. He brushed a piece of glass from his shoulder, snagged in the heavy wool of his blue jacket, and stepped forward. 

The sky opened up.

Only a minute or two later, Magnus strolled away from the stall with a hot bun burning his fingers. People were running and screaming, and there was still a crackling, electric feeling in the air, but he paid it no mind. His ink slept safely in his pocket. The boy stumbled along behind him, his wide eyes fixed in awe upon the crackling sky as though he had never seen a storm before.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you!!! Hope you enjoyed, next chapter up within the week!!


	2. Tacky

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Magnus is forced into buying something he doesn't want, and undergoes a battle of wits with a very small teenager. It's hard to tell whether he wins or not.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No warnings necessary, unless you count one (1) swear word. Thank you so much for responding to the last chapter, I know it's a longfic updating by chapter so I don't expect a lot of readers (not that I ever do!!!) but it's really lovely to see people reading/commenting/leaving kudos. You're all wonderful! <3

The boy followed him like a shadow. No matter how many turns Magnus took through the bumbling crowd, darting in and out of stalls as he savoured the sweet, tart taste of cranberry on his tongue, slipping under awnings and waving away salesman with their glinting trinkets, the boy would not be swayed. He stuck to his heels like Sticksand—a gloppy, clingy concoction living under the earth that Magnus had only had the displeasure of stumbling into once, when the Below World was still new. 

Magnus had been born with a fairly decent shadow, one that did its job well enough, and he wasn’t looking for a replacement. Two shadows seemed a little excessive when one was less than useful most of the time, but it felt odd to turn the boy away so bluntly. Odd and uncomfortable in a way that prompted further examination, but if there was one thing that Magnus was good at, it was avoiding uncomfortable examinations of himself. 

So he took twists and turns instead, batting away paisley-patterned flags, mingling with the many languages that filled the Market with an indecipherable buzz, and hovering in crowds until they parted. The storm crackling in the sky eventually simmered into nothing, leaving behind a clear, hot day. His pocket-watch ticked as the minutes slipped by. But his shadow still clung to his heels. 

“Oh, look,” Magnus said in a dry, emotionless tone, ten minutes later. “A priceless artefact. How intriguing. I’m just going to spend a few minutes quietly absorbed in the prettiness of its exterior, completely oblivious to the world around me.”

It seemed safe enough to stop here, in a less crowded part of the Market. The stall he chose was laden with objects and tapestries and strange obscurities, but most of them seemed old and worn, so clearly there was less foot traffic here. Hopefully the boy would make a run for it, and he could take his ink home in peace. The screams from before had completely faded, so they stood in semi-silence while Magnus bent at the waist to admire a gold oil lamp resting on a velvet cushion.

The stall-keeper—a man with a wispy beard and a failing belt—positively fainted with giddy excitement. His fleshy jowls began to tremble in delight. Magnus wrinkled his nose at the show of eagerness: he would have to buy the damn thing now, if only to stop the man from weeping when he left empty-handed. 

The thought made him irritable. He had gone a long time without helping people, without feeling sympathy or the trickier, more painful emotions that plagued everyday people. Sleep was a wonderful excuse to remain selfish when everything in you rebelled against the notion. 

“Oh, it’s priceless indeed, sir,” the man said importantly, his eyes shining with the peculiar glimmer of Mirrorstone contacts, tasked with obscuring ones true eye colour. “Stolen from the museums above and ferried here on the Wraith Train, of all things. There’s no telling how much it costs, but I’m willing to cut a fine deal for a gentleman such as yourself!’ 

Magnus smiled politely, and then ignored the blathering man in favour of peering over his shoulder. He was stumped to find the boy still standing there, sucking his burned fingers into his mouth. 

“Perhaps you didn’t hear me. I _said,”_ Magnus repeated, a little louder, “oh, look, a priceless artefact.”

“Are you going to say the whole thing again?”

Magnus straightened up properly, turning his back on the briefly disheartened stall-keeper, whose insistent explanations of the lamp’s wealth and backstory were growing more verbose, more emphatic, and more likely to be bullshit. The boy shook his fingers as though that might erase the burn. He cocked his head like the birds that used to nest in the crooks of Magnus’s home, before he redecorated. 

But the birds on his cherry oak beams had been lemon yellow, tinted with flourishes of pink and blue, and they trilled their mating songs for all to hear. This boy was bruised and quiet, with a critical gaze. Lined with icy blue. 

Magnus cleared his throat. “Pardon?”

“The thing you said a minute ago about pretty exteriors, or whatever. While you were staring at that lamp. Are you gonna repeat the whole spiel again?” 

“Apparently so, since you didn't get the message the first time,” Magnus said slowly. “I was attempting to give you the chance to escape.”

The boy looked around Magnus’s waist dubiously, eyeballing the cushion. “By pretending to love a cheap lamp? Look, you’re dressed in a fancy suit that costs more than most of this Market, and I can’t tell if your shoes or your hair is shinier. _I_ know that _you_ know that the lamp’s tacky.”

The stall-keeper, halfway into an elaborate tale of the lamp’s origin story, faltered before raising his voice to be heard over Magnus’s surprised snort. 

“Touché.” Magnus surveyed the boy’s ratty clothing and unwashed, floppy hair. It was hard to tell how old he was, underneath all the dirt; Magnus pinned him somewhere near eleven and left it at that. “You realise that I’m offering you an easy, clean-cut escape, don't you?”

“Not much to escape from.” The boy shrugged. “I followed you, remember? You don't look like you’re keeping me captive, not like that old hag was.”

“She wasn’t a hag,” Magnus said. He strode closer and clasped the boy’s hand, ignoring the faint flinch. He kept his touch light and unobtrusive, but it made no difference to small, tense boys with no trust left in them. 

“How’d you know what she is or isn’t?” the boy snapped. “Just because you fried her with your magic doesn’t mean you knew her. Whatcha’ doing? Get off me.” 

His voice grew crisper when he was mad, though his language was rough around the edges. Magnus let go immediately, feeling that persistent tug of curiosity. “Do you wish to escape now?” 

“Not ‘til you tell me what the hell you were doing.” 

Magnus wasn’t expecting that answer. He wasn't expecting an answer at all, rather a cloud of dust kicked up in the boys’ wake. But the boy had stayed, and his speech had changed again, his tone growing rough and thick, though no less boyish. As though he was trying to hide the richness of his accent. 

Thoughtfully, he took in the boy’s shoes again and his thin shirt, both items ragged and worn, full of holes. He smelled of dirt and his face was grimy, which was to be expected. But there was definitely an element to his voice that wasn’t quite right, something that lingered in his accent like fools gold, and there was still fire there beneath the fear. 

Something strange was afoot here. 

“She wasn’t a hag,” Magnus repeated, gesturing airily. “I’ve met hags, and some of them have delightful personalities, not to mention the typical violet sheen. Their manners are always impeccable.” He bent at the knees to stare directly into the boy’s eyes, his voice softer than before as his trousers met the dusty cobblestones. “That woman was just a woman who knew a few flashy bits of magic, and used them to hurt and terrorise when she shouldn’t have. A monster, but an ordinary monster. Understand?”

“She called herself the Sorceress or something. Enchantress, maybe. She never really talked to me unless it was to tell me what to do.”

Magnus snorted. “Yes, well, that settles it. I have never felt the need to name myself ‘the most charming man alive’ because people know it upon sight. Nothing more tacky than a self-given title.”

The boy narrowed his eyes, then tipped his chin in a short, reluctant nod. “Alright. If you say so.”

“I do say so, and I'm generally correct about most things, for future reference.” Magnus ignored the scoff that followed. “I also give you my word that I won't harm you, and my word is not given lightly. When I took your wrist, I was trying to take away some of your pain, if you’d allow me.”

It took fifteen long, taut seconds before the boy extended his arm and allowed Magnus to take his hand. Magnus folded his young, aching fingers between his own and sought out the burn with his power. Burns were stubborn, setting up shop and snarling at passers-by, their words laden with acid. But they could be booted out with the right persuasion. He found it there, itching under the skin with blistering determination.

It took sixty-three quiet seconds for the burn to fade, soothed by his power. It would have taken less time if Magnus were less tired, but he hadn’t done magic in a long time, and summoning a storm was no mean feat. 

The boy took his hand back and held it up to the light that peered down through the cracks in the sky. His fingers were clean where Magnus had gripped them gently. There wasn’t even a red mark.

“Nice,” the boy said with feeling. He dropped his hand and grinned impishly at Magnus. “See? Why would I want to escape you?”

A boxy laugh fell from Magnus’s lips as he stood. The stall-keeper finally gave up on his desperate sales talk and retreated to the shelter of his faded awning, collapsing in a thready pine chair that had seen better days. 

“Well, if you’re not going to run along, I’m going to need a few details. Where to drop you off, for a start.”

The boy snorted. “Feeling the love.” He crossed his skinny arms over his chest, still veined with icy blue. “Look, I don't know, okay? I’ve never been to this part of Market before. The ha—woman you freed me from grabbed me about a month ago, I think. I was with my brother in the Gold Ridge, and she—uh, she came out of the wall and snatched me.”

“She came out of the wall?” Magnus asked sharply. He didn't catch a whiff of strong power about her, but camouflage spells were complicated, and melding spells were even more complicated. To disguise oneself and meld with the wall should have been impossible to someone as new as the Enchantress, or whatever she was called. Magnus didn’t know her name, and therefore there wasn’t an ancient bone in her body. 

“She shouldn’t have been able to do that,” Magnus murmured. “Not without serious control over her magic, and a lot more power than I sensed. Are you sure?”

The boy mulishly avoided Magnus’s gaze. “Uh, yeah. She did.”

“Right,” Magnus said mildly, not believing it for a second. “Well, I suppose we’ll have to look into that, won’t we? You mentioned the Gold Ridge.”

The boy sucked in a breath, momentarily stunned. Then he cursed, and Magnus chuckled. 

“I take it you didn’t mean to let that little nugget of information slip. The Gold Ridge is where the higher-ups congregate, isn’t it? Shadowhunters and Warlocks that made the cut, and so on. So you must have a rather noteworthy last name attached to your first name, little one.”

“I’m _not_ little.” The boy drew himself up importantly, his eyes flashing fiercely. “And my name is Max. Max… Lightwood.”

Ah, Lightwood. Magnus very nearly groaned. That explained the familiarity, and the fire that almost flooded the fear in his eyes. It also explained the richness of his voice, dressed down in rags; he must have grown used to hiding it when he was held captive by that woman. Lightwood’s were not known to give in easily, not even to their own sensible feelings of fear or self-preservation. He had only known a few in the past, but that was more than enough to last a lifetime. Magnus rubbed at his temple, repressing a sigh. 

“Wonderful,” he muttered. “Of all the helpless young boys out there, I had to stumble upon one that belongs to Maryse Lightwood.” He caught Max’s curious look and added, “Yes, I knew your mother. I had the pleasure of meeting her some years ago. She was a delightful young woman at the time.”

“She’s not dead.”

“Well, I suppose I still know her then, though I don't know if she’s still delightful,” Magnus amended, standing up and brushing off his knees. “It’s just been a while, that’s all. Max, was it?”

Max nodded, cocking his head to the side. “Yeah. Got a name?”

Magnus waved a hand as though he could clear aside that question. He dug into his pocket instead and found a piece of lint. With some concentration, the piece of lint flattened and hardened, taking on the form of a single gold coin. On Magnus’s ebony dresser a few miles away, inside a velvet drawstring pouch, a single gold coin took on the form of a piece of lint.

Magnus threw the gold coin down on the stall and swept up the lamp, inwardly cursing his softness even as the stall-keeper looked close to crying, clasping his hands together and murmuring his gratitude. 

“You really did like the tacky lamp then, Mister Nobody,” Max said, sounding distinctly unimpressed as he moved to keep pace with Magnus. They weaved through the Market. Magnus attempted to rein in his glare as he tucked the lamp under his arm. It was heavier than he expected. 

“It’s Magnus, although you may keep the Mister if you wish. And taste has nothing to do with kindness.”

Max eyed the monstrosity of a lamp. “I feel like it should do, if you want to keep your eyesight. Or your sanity. Or any friends.”

Magnus’s feet picked up speed, quite without instruction. Apparently his body was one step ahead of him: the sooner they reached the Gold Ridge, where mouthy, impertinent kids lived, the better.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you! Let me know what you thought! Next chapter up on Monday or Tuesday, depending on if I go to the cinema!!! Which is not relevant but I don't know how to shut up!!!


	3. Panning For Gold

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Max develops a deep-seated fear of metaphors, and Magnus doesn't think things through.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No Warnings. I'm so excited, mostly about the bits of magic in this chapter, but also just because it was really fun to write. I hope you like it!

Below Brooklyn—and that was the old word for it, the arrogant first name they gave to this hunk of rock they were all supposed to call home now, but really Magnus meant the entire Below World—was split into three rough sections. 

Down, if you went far enough, would eventually take your tired feet to the Copper Sands. A desert, a harsh glimmering plain that could be coaxed into growing lush, green veggies by the right hand. Most of the Downworlders had congregated there by the time Magnus went to sleep, and the place was a little rough at the time, but hopefully someone had polished it since. There was the Silver Street, where the workers, traders and average people lived and hid, working from dusk ‘til dawn. Magnus had spent a lot of time there, making connections and settling people into their hastily-constructed houses. 

And then there was the Gold Ridge, where the Shadowhunters sat in their towers and institutes, noses pointed down. Oh, there were others there, of course--a few choice fae and several Warlocks who knew better than to let their enemy out of sight, but for the most part, the Gold Ridge teemed with Shadowhunters. 

Woven through the middle of the Silver Street, square in the middle of the Below World and running like a plum-scented river, was the Market; a slinking, slithering row of stalls, exhibits, services and displays. Women in feathered black shawls threw fire from their mouths in the corners, and children ran barefoot through the dirt, clutching stolen fruit in their skinny, stained-purple fists. A man let birds fly from his chest, just beneath his collarbones, and bled featherbones upon his stone plinth. Magnus nudged one with his foot as he strolled around the small, distracted crowd. Offerings of healing services and tarot readings, half-priced mysterious teas and luck-infused pies, wish-granting candles and free measurements with each purchase rang out from beneath colourful, shabby awnings. _Come buy, come buy!_ said desperate, doleful voices. 

“Protection from Desoulers,” a baker in a stained apron yelled, proffering a platter of savoury bites. Each one was pockmarked with little bits of green; sage or parsley, most likely, disguised as far more magical herbs. “Get them while they’re cool!” 

“Everyone is so very concerned with safety,” Magnus muttered, idling near several buckets of blessed shellfish. “Things must have escalated whilst I slept. Shame. I had hoped to avoid it entirely.” 

One mussel bobbed close to the surface, breaking through the water to droop at him in a way that felt oddly reprimanding. Magnus spelled it back down with a sniff, watching it glug back down to the bottom. So what if he was only telling part of the truth? 

“There’s no need to get so judgemental,” Magnus muttered, sliding the lid on top of the bucket. 

“Yeah, okay old man,” Max said, tugging him away from the buckets, tiny hands wrapped tentatively around Magnus’s elbow. “That's enough reminiscing, don't you think? Wouldn't want you to fall in and drown in your own angst.”

“Yes, probably best to keep a lid on all that.”

“Look, there's a short-cut down here that should take us up to the Gold Ridge, but it depends how many Guards are… well, guarding.” 

There were plenty of Guards, but not many of them had been told exactly what their job entailed, as it turned out. Max, when not clinging to his heels, was very good at finding gaps in the crowd to squeeze through, and dodging the eyes of dodgy-looking folk. Magnus ended up following _him_ until they were out of sight of the Guards, but given an excellent view of one of them dropping his flask on the ground. 

“They won’t let me into the Gold Ridge,” Max said, tugging on the hem of his shirt. “Not like this.” 

They had stopped near a stall selling empty urns, each one extravagantly decked out with dull, fake jewels. Magnus didn't particularly want to think about why there was an urn stall here, at the very top of the Market, the first curve of the snake. He didn't think there should be a market for urns at all, if he was honest, but they did make a very good (if morbid) screen to hide behind. 

The Gold Ridge towered above them, a rocky cliff face that shone like polished gems. In the shadow, the Guards lingered near a wide set of steps that curved out of view. The fellow who had dropped his flask was now wiping it on his friends’ sleeve. 

Magnus hummed, counting each Guard thoughtfully. “Any reason why, little one? They seem like reasonable enough people.”

Max gestured at his dirty face with a grimace. “Nobody gets in unless they look the part, and you’re suspicious enough that they’ll probably not believe me even if I give them my name. And I’d say I just came down for a walk, but they didn't see me pass by on the way down, and they’re not gonna believe that I ever wanted to leave in the first place.”

“I thought you were captured.”

Max’s face bloomed with sheepish red before it was hastily turned away. “I was. I just meant, they wouldn’t believe me if I _did_ say that. So I need, like, a wash. Or they’re not going to let us go up.”

Magnus sighed. Several of the Guards had started up a game of Prickpocket—a card game that Magnus remembered being notoriously bad at. Sleight of hand had never been his forte; he would much rather make something genuinely disappear than faff about pretending to hide a coin in an ear. Besides, they fit far more easily up a nostril, with a little magical nudge. 

“I suppose by ‘look the part’ you mean white, clean, and well-dressed.” Magnus sighed again, raising one beautifully dark hand with a small smile. “You have the first part covered, but I doubt they would let me in even if an Angel vouched for me. And there are no Angels here.” 

Max started to make some sort of awkward protest, but Magnus turned his gaze to the steps leading up over the gold ridge. The steps were cut directly into the face of the cliff, but they curved too soon to make out whether there were more Guards further up. Pillars carved with symbols and runes flanked the first step, but the runes didn't look like they were active. More for decoration than anything. The Guards huddled around the left pillar, shouting indistinctly when their hands were dealt, their fingers pricked. Magnus pushed down a disgusted sound; the Guards would most likely not notice that Max hadn’t come down earlier in the day, nor that he was somewhere he wasn’t supposed to be, if only because they seemed to be extremely bad at their job. 

“Shadowhunters really have gone downhill since we came here, haven’t they?” Magnus said, not really expecting an answer, though he did note Max’s confused frown. “Not literally, of course.” He glanced again at the Gold Ridge, looming over everything. 

He could transform into a bird and fly up above, but every vein of this world trembled with the heady flow of magic. It was stronger where the scent of money was thick, where people could pay for the very best. There were measures put in place, wards to keep intruders out. Magnus squinted at a faint blue pulse in the sky above the cliff face, but try as he might, he could not remember if he had built the wards that stood strong here. He really had slept for far too long. 

“Mmm.”

Max scrubbed at his cheek with the palm of his hand, as though that might erase the filth blanketing him from head to toe. “I don't like the sound of that. What does that mean? Mmm?”

“It means, my dear, doubting boy, that I’m going to have to throw around a few unsavoury suggestions, and we’ll see what happens.”

“I don't like the sound of that either."

“That's because you're a sensible boy,” Magnus said. “That is, when you're not running away from your charmed little life and then lying to your saviours about it.” 

Max, in a stunning show of self-preservation, remained silent. He hunched his shoulders a little, avoiding the eyes of everyone in the Market, but especially Magnus. 

Magnus clapped his hands, sending subtle sparks of cold orange into the air as he warmed up his magic. “Are they easily bribed, your guards?” 

“I doubt it. Everyone in the Gold Ridge is rich, you know, including the Guards. I don't know why they bother pretending they need a job.”

That didn't make sense, Magnus would admit, but he had long since given up on unravelling the eccentricities of the wealthy. He barely understood his own eccentricities. 

“Not all Shadowhunters are rich, surely,” Magnus pointed out, because he knew some of the poorer families in the Above World, the ones that weren’t entirely corrupted by power or the charming, slimy words of the Clave. Not everyone could have money or power, no matter how much they were relied on, no matter how important they were. 

Max shrugged. “Not all the Shadowhunters live in the Gold Ridge.”

This momentarily stumped him. He stared at Max for a minute, who seemed to have made friends with eye contact again, though that might have been because he was unnerved by Magnus’s gaping mouth. 

“What?” 

Magnus snapped his mouth shut. “Nothing. Nothing at all.” He heaved a steady breath and said, “No bribery, then, but don't fret. I’m a fountain of good ideas. We’ll have you home in no time.”

Max scuffed his shoes against the dirt, gaze sinking. Magnus left him to it, eyeing the Guards and their card game with interest. They seemed to be easily distracted, and he had years of practice under his belt at causing distractions.

He recalled, suddenly, the stall-keeper and his weepy declarations of thanks. 

With a thoughtful hum, Magnus withdrew the tacky lamp from within his jacket, where he had shrunk it to fit in a hidden pocket, and said, “Max, have you ever panned for gold?” 

He set his other hand on fire before Max could say anything. It responded beautifully, his magic, billowing up like a beloved pet at the end of a day. Except it was more than that, and he could never find the words to explain this particular part of him. He waved the cloud of orange flame gently over the lamp, warming the metal surface as he waited for Max to speak. 

Max shrunk behind the wall of urns, out of sight and wild-eyed. His mouth drew tight, but the longer he went without being yelled at, or advanced on, and the less Magnus moved, the less tense he grew. “No, but I don't think now’s the time for whatever that is.” 

Magnus disagreed. “Panning for gold is where you take a large saucepan and beat the surfaces of a cave until something of value unearths itself. Nowadays people use any old appliance, of course, so it doesn’t necessarily have to be a pan, but etymology is sticky.” 

Max's mouth went slack for a minute, surprised. And then he frowned, scanning from the curled tips of his snake-skin boots to the dark, deep blue that frosted his hair, paired perfectly with his jacket. After a minute, Max said, “I believe that you went around hitting stuff with pots and pans—I mean, just look at you—and I believe someone probably went around hitting _you_ with pots and pans, but the rest of that was definitely made up.” 

“The thing is,” Magnus said, kneeling suddenly in the sand and lifting the lid of the lamp. “You did believe me, even if only for a minute, and a minute is all I need. Because as soon as something is said, it loses all value as a lie. Saying things aloud gives people a chance to take in the words, and then they take it upon themselves to believe it.”

As he talked, he took note of the trajectory of the lamp, should it begin to explode here, and shifted it a few millimetres to the left. Much better. Max’s gaze switched wildly between the Guards and their card game, with their sharply-barbed spears held lazily at their sides, and Magnus, kneeling in the dirt and spouting pearls of wisdom, if you asked him, which nobody did. 

“People are self-sacrificing like that,” Magnus explained cheerfully, reaching into his pocket for the bottle of ink wrapped in brown paper--which he dropped on the ground--and shaking it vigorously. “They’ll believe anything. A little bit of belief is all it takes to keep a lie spinning its web for a thousand years. One could argue that it’s no longer a lie at that point. Belief can feed a God. It can rot a country.” 

“What,” Max demanded, “did you _eat_ while I wasn't looking? Was it the mussels? I knew you spent too long in the Market. That perfume place alone could make you think you were a demon.” 

“Would you be a dear and shout ‘fire’ for me?” Magnus asked pleasantly, uncorking the ink. “Or ‘curse’ if you’re feeling particularly fruity.” 

“Fruity—”

Magnus poured the ink inside the lamp. It landed with a splatter, trickling down the sides in dizzying shades of emerald, and began to bubble inside the rusted metal walls. The stall-keeper had struck him as a man with many lies in his pocket, but one that stuck with Magnus as a possible truth was the lamp being ferried here on the Wraith Train. Objects weren’t often carried on the Wraith Train, but sometimes a soul clung to bits and pieces of their past. And the minute he touched the lamp, he knew. 

The rust was not rust; if you looked closely, it became clear that it was ectoplasm. And ectoplasm reacted quite badly with both magic and dragon’s blood, which with any luck, could be found in the ink—famous for only appearing when heat was applied to a letter. 

The fact that Magnus had all these things in reach seemed like enough of a reason to do it. 

“Magnus,” Max said cautiously, as the fire in his hand died down. 

A simple thought had the ink fizzing and spitting like an injured cat, and another push of power had the ectoplasm smoking, and suddenly the lamp was spinning across the sand. Slow at first, and then gathering a wild, erratic sort of speed, it left scorching tracks in the surface as it clattered and banged, not unlike pans against a cave wall, emitting a sound similar to that of a screeching banshee come mating season. 

It was a thing of beauty. 

“Fuck!” Max yelled, dragging Magnus behind the wall of urns. 

“Not quite,” Magnus said from the floor, a bit breathless. He waited the necessary four seconds for the lamp to careen dangerously close to the bewildered Guards, and then strengthened his voice with a touch of power, leaning around the urns to bellow, “FIRE!” at the top of his voice, just as the lamp exploded in a shower of sparks and jade smoke, wailing all the while. 

The bellow took to the streets with little grace. All around, people jumped and launched themselves from their stalls, shrieking as they ran for cover. This was not the Copper Sands, where heat became a raging fire that caught and spread its wings with ease, devouring everything in sight, be it plants or dust or houses in the thick of mud. But the Market was dusted over with the same coarse sand that lit so eagerly, and with a hot sun in the sky and so many rags and flags blowing in tatters in the wind, it was simple enough to inspire panic. 

“Quickly,” Magnus whispered, and he gripped Max by the arm and took off into the chaos. The lamp was still spinning and shaking, coughing out plumes of fiery smoke, and the Guards abandoned their post with little prompting. 

They darted forward, sneaking past the Guards that fumbled their weapons, cards raining down from the sky, and formed a loose circle around the hissing lamp. The first wave of wards took Magnus’s breath away, but he barrelled on. The steps were steep, but he charged up them with Max at his heels. 

“That was insane,” Max snapped. He was out of breath from running up the stairs, and Magnus was a little surprised to find that he was out of breath too, but it was only natural, he supposed. Sleep had a way of eating at muscle and strength. 

“I never claimed to be sound of mind, dear boy,” Magnus said, drawing him further up the stairs with some urgency. “But it did the job, didn't it? We've avoided unfriendly eyes, capture, torture, possible death, and nobody is hurt.” 

A distant boom split Max’s doubtful silence in half. Magnus sent a gust of cool, soothing air skywards; if the clouds weren't feeling temperamental, they might be persuaded to rain fairly soon. Weather spells were tricky at best, and he was far better at storms than gentle downpours, but it was worth a shot. 

“I was careful,” Magnus promised. “Nobody will be hurt. A little scared, but not hurt.”

Max relaxed a little, but the truth left Magnus a bit uneasy. He hadn’t been careful, not really. No protective magic, for them or for the people around them. He had, in retrospect, just _bombed_ the Market without a second thought, and the realisation made his stomach lurch with confusion and mild horror. He shouldn't have done that. 

He shoved the truth away and kept climbing. 

The golden stairway was miraculously stable beneath his feet. He didn't slip or slide on the glossy surface, nor did he miss a step and tumble to his death, as some magical stairs enjoyed enabling. The stairway wound deeper and deeper into the cliff face until gold-threaded walls of stone rose up on all sides, obscuring the view. The Gold Ridge grew ever closer. 

“My mother lives on the North-East side of the inner ring, in the Lightwood Institute.” Max jammed his hands in his ragged pockets, his blue-lined pinky finger visible through a hole near the seam, crossed over one of his other fingers. “There might be more Guards around, and they’ll be looking for whoever blew up that lamp, so if you don't want to stay, I can find my own way there. I have a feeling you don't want anyone to know you're around.”

Magnus raised an eyebrow. It was quite a jump from moments ago, when Max had been determined to stick by him. He felt a twinge of hurt and regret, wondering if perhaps the lamp exploding had frightened Max more than he was willing to let on, but then Max’s eyes flicked to the left. Sheepish, and urgent. Like he wanted to flee, but not because he was scared of where he was; more because he was scared of where he was going. 

“And who might be waiting for you at this lovely, no doubt mausoleum-inspired Institute? Just your mother?” 

Max nodded sharply. 

“You must think I’m a fool,” Magnus chided gently, as they neared the top of the steps, slowing down slightly. “Max. You don't owe me anything, but why don't you tell me the truth, for once? I'm sure it'll be a novel experience, but one worth repeating, I assure you.” 

Max jogged up the last few steps, face turned away, but there was still a scowl etched into his features. Magnus could _feel_ it. There were no Guards stationed nearby, but Magnus thought he saw a glint of slim, long metal in the distance when he stepped over the rim of the Gold Ridge. A blade, perhaps, or just a fancy flagpole, but they couldn't be too careful. He straightened his lapels and sighed at Max’s continued silence. The back of his neck was visible from the way his head was ducked down, the blue lines peeking through his scruffy hair. 

“Well, I can’t force you. If it matters so much to you, I suppose I can let you find your own way home,” Magnus said. “Send me a message to let me know that you got home safely, and give my regards to Maryse, please.” 

Max wheeled around to stare at him, bug-eyed. “Wait, seriously?” 

“Very seriously. I’m not one for nonsense.” There was still ink on his fingers from his impromptu bomb, but a quick flick vanished the green substance before Max could comment. It really was more jade than emerald, but luckily it had still been imbued with dragon’s blood. He chivied Max away, flapping his clean hands. “Off with you, then. And have someone check you over, so that I can rest easy knowing you're uninjured.” 

And with that, Magnus vanished. 

Max gaped at the air for, struck silent, before letting out a strangled sound. “Oh, nice! Real nice!” When there was no answer, a deep scowl commandeered his mouth. He kicked at the smooth paving stones and muttered, “Didn't even give me a chance to say _thank you,_ or change my mind. Seriously. What a dick.” 

Magnus, standing quite where he was, although rather more invisible than he had been, smiled to himself. He softened his footsteps, thinking of cotton and clouds, and slowed his breathing, thinking of lizards and their barely-blinking ways, and he envisioned the ocean, the fathomless depths wrapped around him, rendering him invisible, inaudible, untouchable. It was harder to walk this way, like the air around you was thicker, and breathing was a chore, but Magnus managed. If he could have stretched this to two people, he would have been able to forgo the bomb, but Max wouldn’t have taken well to that kind of enveloping, suffocating magic. 

Not to mention that he'd barely even considered it, Magnus reminded himself, with another lurch of unease. 

But as rash as those actions had been, Magnus had no intention of letting Max go off alone. But he also had no intention of arguing with a grumpy teenager over whether supervision was necessary, or dragging him about by his collar when he was clearly lying. The pretence was justified, he told himself, even as the regret deepened when Max’s expression broke into one of hurt. 

The faster Max was home with his family, the faster Magnus could find some answers. Curiosity killed the cat, and satisfaction was rare enough that Magnus liked to stay well clear of a mystery these days, but this mystery was just taunting enough to grasp him. 

“What kind of a moron leaves a kid all alone anyway?” Max continued to mutter, stepping neatly into the shadow of one of the birch trees flanking the stairway. With a deep sigh that made Magnus’s mouth twitch, Max packed up all his grumbles and complaints, fastened the lid, and put his shoulders back. 

“There we go,” Magnus said, his voice the merest blip, like the faint buzz of an old stereo writhing past on a highway. “Lead the way, Max.” 

Max, as though he could hear the blip, sighed once more before turning on his heel. He began to walk, ignoring the gently battered signs outside of houses and shops, and the colourful flags with painted faces and stars all over the fabric. But the further he walked, the softer his face grew. It had been a while since he had been home, Magnus assumed, and not for lack of trying. His small, battered fingers trailed over the walls, tentative and hopeful. He didn't smile at passing people, but the streets were quiet enough that nobody really noticed this slow, wandering boy. He stepped easily over sleeping dogs on their owners’ porches, stopping to pet the fluffiest ones. Magnus shadowed him, that soft look of loss and hope embedding itself in his heart, much as he tried to push it away. 

Max stopped walking at the road that led to the inner ring of the Gold Ridge, where the Institutes peeled off in all directions, like a compass marked with a hundred new little lines and destinations. A gloriously large fountain played a mellow tune in the middle, the water flowing so swiftly that it looked blurry. It was dizzying enough that Magnus had to turn away, blinking heavily.

Max fixed his gaze North-East for a moment, and then turned again, not for the Institute with his last name emblazoned on it, not for his mother and a bed with warm sheets, but towards the townhouses on the farthest, most forgettable reaches of the Gold Ridge. 

“Oh, Max,” Magnus said to himself, his voice no more than a thin, cloud-like wisp. “I know you didn't seem to like my frying pan metaphors, but at least have a nap before you climb straight into the fire.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're impatient for Alec, I promise he's on his way. This is definitely a Malec story, I just need to get them in the same room! Thank you for commenting/kudosing etc, you're all lovely. I know there are still lots of questions and confusion etc, but we're only three chapters in and I do answer them all, I promise! But feel free to ask them anyways, it helps me weed out anything I've missed! <3


	4. Guardian Angel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Magnus fights off an awful lot of gnats, and makes a mistake that will bite him later.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I started Uni!! So updates might be a tad slower, but they won't stop! 
> 
> No Warnings! <3

The cliff dropped off in another mile or so. There was the last street, and then a stretch of dry grassland before a swift, sudden dive. Nobody had thought to build a wall, or a fence, but the message to stay back was quite clear. Out beyond the rim of the Gold Ridge, the Market twined its merry way through the Silver Street like a fat, full serpent. Several stalls were smoking gently, and two were still ablaze, but the people picking themselves off the ground or climbing out of trunks were unharmed, unhurt. The Copper Sands were indistinct, a mirage in the distance that glimmered faintly beneath the scorching sun. 

Magnus blinked until his pupils constricted, the slits of his eyes shrinking to their average size, and then smoothly sidestepped a clattering carriage before it could squash him flat. He had walked into the middle of the road while his magic enhanced his vision, letting in more light until he could see the very edge of the Gold Ridge and the wall of magical wards enveloping it. The wards were visible from within the boundary, a domed, glossy sheen of turquoise light that shimmered softly when birds flew through it overhead. They did not fly much farther. 

The wards were not his work, that much was certain. But there was an intriguing flavour to them, rather like an annual turkey dinner at an old friends' house. Familiar, and comfortable. That must have been why they let him in without too much of a fuss; he was friends with the ward-maker, even if he didn't know who it was yet. 

“You’re in so much trouble, I don't even know where to start,” snapped someone to his right, although it didn't seem like they were talking to him. There was a yelp and a scuffle and a muffled obscenity. 

Magnus was slow to turn. The longer he wore his magic like a second skin, the more he forgot his first skin. The threads of his invisibility were growing heavy, as though dense webs now dressed him from head to toe. It took an obscene amount of effort just to face the townhouses rising up along the side of the street, where he had left Max dawdling near a streetlight, still unaware that he was being followed. But Max wasn't near the streetlight anymore. 

The doors of each townhouse were weathered and worn, but brightly painted. Their red brick walls had curved inwards slightly with the force of regular, pounding rain. All of the roofs were topped with strange oblongs that puffed out iridescent smoke, hiding amongst a few ordinary chimneys and the odd weather-vane. It was quiet. Quaint. Magnus spotted a balcony overflowing with shrubbery and flowers, and a window crowded with silver chimes a few houses down. The effect was quite striking, and for a single peaceful minute, there didn't appear to be anything wrong. 

But then a sharp cry broke through the picturesque quiet, and it could only belong to Max. Magnus tried to look around, to start walking, but he couldn’t force his sluggish brain to focus. He weighed the pros and cons in the still-sharp center of his mind before shaking off the invisible robe imperiously. He peeled away the creeping sleeves and dusted off his sticky jacket. The threads stretched and stretched like gum between two fingers--before _snapping._ He sighed in relief as they hit the ground with soft thumps, melting into nothing, and the fog in his mind faded.

A woman released a startled shriek when he popped into view, appearing suddenly in the middle of the street. Murmurs went up; it was quiet here, sure, but a scream and an invisible man was bound to draw everyone’s attention. Magnus ignored them, scanning the street. It did not take very long to find the only slit between two townhouses, a gap not much larger than a doorway that seemed darker than the rest of the street. He narrowed his eyes. 

A shadow was wrestling Max down an alleyway. 

Magnus, as Magnus was wont to do, proceeded to do something very stupid. He thrust out his palm and traced an oval in the air. A scorching ring of deep blue quivered to life, drawing shocked gasps from onlookers. Some scurried away like ants. Some drew swords and blades and curling whips, activating the runes on their necks, but they kept their distance, and some not-so-distant part of Magnus was darkly amused at their reaction. The portal filled him with a simmering heat as he stepped through it, to another shocked chorus, appearing at the other end of the dark alley. God, he had _missed_ this. He would regret it later, but for now he burned with exhilaration.

Up ahead, the two figures had not noticed him. The shadow’s back was facing him, its arms wrapped around a wriggling, cursing Max as it dragged him away from the mouth of the alley, into the shadows. Magnus came to a swift decision. He could cut them off here. He snapped his fingers to extinguish the bright blue light, letting the portal fade with a faint shudder. 

“Stop squirming,” the shadow hissed. 

Magnus thought he detected a bit of amusement, and anger curled in his gut. The shadow dragged Max towards a family of rusty garbage cans and clamped a hand tightly over his mouth. Magnus felt a vicious surge of rage and raised his hand, but the shadow yelped and staggered back before he could utter a word. 

“What the hell, Max?” 

Stumped, Magnus lowered his hand. The shadow lifted a shining lump that filled the alleyway with white light. It was still bright out, the sun edging its way across the sky, but the alleyway seemed to have a fondness for the dark. 

“You bit me,” the shadow said, shaking out its other hand. Flecks of blood hit the cobbles. “I can’t believe you bit me. Do you treat all your guardian angels this way, or am I just special?”

The shadow lifted the shining stone higher, illuminating his face. It was square, and not at all shadowy, and sort of boringly handsome too, if one went for that sort of thing. Blond hair had never really been Magnus’s thing, and he liked kidnappers even less so, regardless of whether or not they claimed to be rescuing their prey. 

“Well you’re the one that snuck up on me!” Max yelled, wiping his mouth. “I didn't need saving, I was on my way to the house.”

The shadow’s face softened. “Max…”

“Some guardian angel you are. The time to rescue me would have been when I actually got kidnapped,” Max bit out. “You know, a _month_ ago? Or have you only just noticed I was missing?”

Max had _bitten_ the shadow, which proved some level of familiarity. The shadow had known his name. Magnus didn't know what was going on, but Max had mentioned a brother when he lied about being taken by the woman in the wall. If he hadn’t been lying about that too, then Magnus was willing to bet his least expensive ring that this was the brother. 

“Max,” the shadow said again, stepping forward. When he was close enough he wrenched Max into a hug, holding him close and muffling the white light. Shadows trembled on the walls. Max went into the embrace stiffly, but even from a distance, Magnus could see the way his shoulders relaxed in his brother’s hold. 

“We’ve been looking everywhere for you,” the shadow murmured. The next words were said too quietly for Magnus to hear, but Max drooped like a punctured lung, fisting his hands in the back of the shadow’s jacket, before the shadow abruptly seized him and flung him towards the garbage cans. It seemed to happen in slow-motion; one minute they were hugging and whispering, and the next minute Max was yelling as he was thrown backwards. 

Magnus took an aborted step forward, only to dart to the side when a knife hurtled through the air. It glanced off the wall and clattered to the ground, but the shadow was already pulling another from his belt. Max yelped as he disappeared in the cluster of garbage cans, arms pinwheeling as they crashed and rolled along the cobbles. Magnus batted the next knife away with a hand encased in blue. He felt it sting, but the skin didn't break. 

"That wasn't very welcoming," Magnus said. 

The shadow crouched, braced itself, and leapt. 

The shadow’s thought process probably went something like this: _I will jump, pull the two daggers from the holsters around my calves, land on my unsuspecting victim, and stab him to death before he can so much as raise his arms in defence. I will then perform some sort of unnecessary acrobatic flip to prove that I, the superior kidnapper, have bested the interloper, and be hailed a hero._

Or perhaps Magnus was giving the shadow too much credit, he thought, as he idly sent one of the garbage cans sailing into the back of the shadow’s head. One dagger made it free of its holster, but the other landed on the ground when the shadow buckled mid-leap, crumpling. He rose again with a dark scowl, advancing. Magnus spread his arms and summoned some of the bricks from the walls either side of them, ripping them out of their cosy confines. They shot towards Magnus like corks popping from a bottle. The bricks shifted in the air, forming and reforming a shield as more knives were hurled his way. 

It was like batting away insects. Tiny, irritating insects with no stings to speak of. Gnats, if anything. 

“Jace!” Max yelled, staggering out of the pile of trash. “Jace, stop!”

Magnus raised his hand and made a fist, concentrating. The floating bricks crumbled to dust with a satisfying crunch, and when he flung his fist out, the dust shot towards the shadow. The shadow dived, snarling, but it was no good. The dust swirled around his ankles and hands and became brick again, dragging him to his knees and anchoring him in place. The alleyway fell quiet, dust still caught in the air, and the only sound was Max's footsteps and the shadow's harsh breathing. 

“There,” Magnus said, dusting off his hands. “I was thinking this alleyway was a bit drab. Now there’s a lovely bit of modern art to brighten things up a bit.”

Max punched him in the shoulder. Magnus jerked back in surprise, catching the tiny fists as they tried to land more vicious hits. He bent at the knee to look Max in the eye, his heart sinking slightly at the fear and rage there, and he found himself making a soothing sound. 

“Get away from him,” the shadow snarled. The brick had moulded completely to the cobbles, so he was frozen in place, hunched over awkwardly. But he didn't tip his chin in defeat. Sweat dripped down his forehead, but otherwise he was coolly composed. 

“Hush,” Magnus said, tugging Max a little closer. “I haven’t hurt him, and I won’t hurt him.”

It wasn’t entirely clear which boy he was talking to, but Max was the one that stiffened. His eyes cleared, and he focused intently. 

“Magnus?”

“Did you think I was some other Warlock with fantastic magical control?” Magnus tutted, releasing his wrists carefully and wrinkling his nose. “What a divine scent. I’d forgotten that children have a talent for finding the foulest smell around and rolling in it.”

“I’m not a child,” Max snapped, before he bit his lip, clearly worried. “I thought it was you at first, that’s why I yelled for Jace to stop. But then you started fighting, and you didn't look like you anymore. You looked dangerous. Like you might kill him.”

Cracks appeared in the stone around Magnus’s heart.

“I said, get away from him!”

No amount of cursing or pulling would budge Jace, as Max had called him. He was trapped in the ground until Magnus released him, but his face twisted, and each wrinkle that the twist evoked spoke of a thousand ways he would hurt Magnus when he finally broke free. The veins in his neck bulged as he strained to get free. It was a conversation in desperation.

“And I said that I wouldn’t hurt him.” Magnus stood, aware of two pairs of keen eyes fixed on him, and one pair lingering in the shadows, unnoticed. “You’re his brother, I presume?” 

“Yes,” Jace grit out. “Forgive me if I don't go spilling our life story to you, though.”

Max stepped around Magnus and trotted over to Jace, frowning at a cut on his chin. It was bleeding sluggishly. 

“Magnus isn’t bad,” Max said, a little hesitantly. “He’s the warlock who rescued me earlier.”

The rage in Jace’s expression smoothed out as though a large hand had wiped all the emotion from his face. There was nothing there, nothing but a blank mask. Despite himself, Magnus took a few steps closer, intrigued. 

“I suppose you could call me the guardian angel, if you like,” Magnus offered absently, a small smirk tugging at his mouth when anger flashed in Jace’s eyes. 

“Funny,” Jace said, yanking on his wrists again. “I thought saviours tended to be a little less violent.” 

“You obviously haven’t read many good stories then.” 

Max gazed between the two of them warily. 

“If I release you, are you going to throw your toys out of the cot again?” Magnus inquired, straightening the edge of his sleeve. “It’s been a long day, you see, and it would be… how shall I put this… incredibly _irksome_ to have to put you back in your shackles if you attack me.” 

Jace said nothing, glaring heavily. 

“You don’t have to trust him,” Max announced, drawing both their attention. He straightened his back under their stares, and nodded firmly. “I’ll trust him for you, if you like. He did save me, and he was nice enough, and I think he only fought because you fought first, Jace. So I’ll trust him for you. But whatever you want to do, can you do it soon?" He held up his filthy arms and added, "I’d really like to have a bath, and I can’t do that if I don’t have my guardian angel to take me home.” 

Magnus refrained from asking which one. 

Jace rolled his eyes. “You just don’t want to face their wrath alone.” 

Max grinned, a bright flash of teeth. “Got it in one.” 

Magnus briefly wondered who ‘they’ were, but he was distracted by a scuttling in the shadows of the upturned garbage cans. He peered over Jace’s tense shoulder into red eyes and rolled his own. God, Raphael was anything but subtle. One whiff of Magnus’s magic in the air, and all manner of creatures and old friends saw fit to crawl out of the woodwork. That was going to end up being tedious. 

Max was still cajoling Jace into accepting help, albeit with less and less patience, which was unsurprising considering how much filth clung to his tattered clothes. The stench of garbage was growing alarmingly pungent. Magnus decided to hurry things along a bit. 

Striding forward, he knelt in front of Jace, who reared back as much as his brick bracelets would allow. Then he grew rigid and tightened his jaw, as though berating himself for reacting at all. Magnus scoffed. Typical Shadowhunter. 

“What are you doing?” Max hovered at his shoulder, scowling anxiously. 

“Speeding up the tiresome process of earning trust,” Magnus explained. He gathered up a coil of magic and pressed it to Jace’s chin with his thumb, wincing apologetically at the faint hiss. He managed to hide his own double-take, because he had healed plenty of people in the past, and he had yet to feel guilty for the pain that healing caused. Or maybe he had once, a long time ago. 

He pressed a little harder. Jace didn’t flinch. He stared hard at Magnus, his body swaying to the left to stay as close to Max as possible. 

“I have no plans to hurt anybody,” Magnus said, as patiently as he could. “I am a Warlock, yes, and I am insanely powerful, but I tend to act only in self-defence. With a little personal gain thrown in every now and again, of course.”

Max snorted softly. 

“If I wanted Max dead or injured, I would have left him with the woman that had him under her thumb.” Magnus smoothed over the cut with his own thumb, sealing the skin up. “She was vile, and an enslaver, but I have my doubts about whether her mind was her own. If nothing else, she wasn’t working alone. You will need my help if you want to keep Max safe, and I tend to be more agreeable when I’m not under attack.” 

The last of the cut sealed over. It melted away, leaving a thin line of silver that would fade over the days. 

“I could have done that myself,” Jace muttered, eyeing him sharply. And when Magnus peered closer, he could see the soft silver lines of scars across his neck and face. There was a distinct opalescent sheen that said they had been soothed by magic and not time, though it wasn’t a magic that Magnus had the pleasure of wielding. Some runes stuck around, and some faded with time, but none of them ever truly disappeared. 

“I have no doubt. Shall we?” 

Magnus stood and beckoned at the mouth of the alley. Max, who had grown pale and taut at the suggestion of further danger in his future, brightened and headed for the square of sunlight. 

A soft snort of laughter stopped Magnus from following him. 

“Aren’t you forgetting something?” 

Turning, he found Jace still tethered to the ground, one eyebrow cocked. He looked so at ease, and somehow gave off the impression that this was all his own doing, and perfectly going to plan. As though he had meant to trap himself in stone, and was quite enjoying the pleasant afternoon. Magnus grit his teeth and tried to remember his bracing, reassuring speech about trust and meaning no harm.

Jace tugged pointedly on his bonds. Up ahead, Max started to snicker. The red eyes vanished in the shadows, leaving only the faintest aura of judgement behind. 

“My mistake.” 

Magnus clicked his fingers for a little extra theatre, and the brick bracelets burst into dust, blanketing Jace from head to toe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you liked it! Please let me know if you did! 
> 
> Alec arrives in the next chapter! <3


	5. Not A Knock

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Max goes home. Magnus can't decide if this is a good thing or not, but it involves a very persistent headache.

Rain poured from the skies. It had started falling not five minutes ago, dousing the last of the lamp’s frenetic path through the Market. The thread of magic connecting Magnus to the lamp stretched thinner with every step he took across the Gold Ridge, trembling like a violin string as it reached its breaking point. 

Somewhere in the Market, under a steady downpour, one Guard bravely prodded the sizzling lamp with his sword, backed up several paces with his lungs full of trapped, bated breath, and then exhaled harshly. He proclaimed it safe. A murmur of triumph traversed the circle of Guards, right before the lamp pursed its spout and spat one last congealed globule of ink at the brave Guard’s face. 

The thread of magic snapped, and the vision vanished without a trace. leaving Magnus standing on the sidewalk like some common salesman. They had stopped outside of a fairly ordinary townhouse in a regimented line of other ordinary townhouses. These ones were a little shabbier than those near the Inner Circle, but still grander than anything most people in the Copper Sands could ever dream of owning. 

The green gate creaked when Magnus leaned his weight on it, hip propped against the flaky paint. Jace whirled around at the sound, stopping in the middle of the garden path to glare at him. 

“I told you to stay there.” Jace idly flipped a knife over his fingers, watching him like a hawk while Max scrambled up the last few steps and rapped impatiently on the door. “You said you wanted to see him home, and this is home. If everyone inside agrees, then I'll come back and let you in. But you’re staying put until I say otherwise. Got it, Warlock?” 

“Max is being strangled.”

Jace whirled around again, scattering small stones with the heel of his boot. He raised his knife like a torch, angelic light flickering at the very tip. Max was very much not being strangled, but at least Jace was no longer talking. Magnus almost felt bad for the lie, but he pushed the feeling aside when Jace started cursing like a sailor, and undid the latch on the gate. There was a rush of cold air across his skin. He sighed as the wards bent and moulded to him, clearly reluctant to allow him access. Jace hadn't technically denied him entry, though, and he wasn’t a threat just yet, so the wards gave in.

Max tapped his foot on the doorstep. The rain hadn't breached the wards, leaving the garden untouched by moisture. Magnus had applied a thin layer of protective magic to all three of them, and only Max’s jacket was a bit wet. He let the protective magic slink away now as they stood beneath the safety of the wards. 

“You have a strange definition of strangling,” Jace said, lowering his knife as Magnus joined him. “You might want to be careful in the future. That could be disappointing in some situations.” 

“Why Jace,” Magnus said, with mocking, silky delight. “I had no idea you felt that way. Trust me, if you ever meet my standards, you'll find I'm far from disappointing in _every_ situation.” 

Jace shot him a look that was three parts disgust and one part reluctant amusement; his favourite recipe. Always lead to deliciously amusing things, that look. He winked at Jace, ignored Max’s grumble of complaint, and strolled the rest of the way up the path to rap on the door. 

“I just did that,” Max said, rolling his eyes. “Unless you've got a magical knock or… wait.” He eyed Magnus suspiciously. “Do you have a magical knock?”

Magnus simply smiled. He did not, in fact, have a magical knock, but he did have magic that could imbue any of his actions, including a knock. All very straightforward, and yet people got in such a tizzy when he tried to explain it. Granted, his diagrams weren't the best, but still. 

The magical knock that was not a magical knock crept into the door. It sunk deep into the grain of the wood, zipping up and down in lightning-fast strokes, and then darted underneath the door. 

“Uh, do I want to know what you did?” Max said, stepping back nervously. He was trying not to seem worried, but his expression was as open as any cloudless sky. “If you did something to the people inside, we might want to—”

“Move back,” Jace said grimly. He grabbed Max by the back of his shirt and lifted him, dragging him off the top step. Magnus rolled his eyes at the drama, but followed obligingly. He stood near a patch of wilting wildflowers, each one a pale shade of sickly yellow, and frowned. The whole garden was in disarray, now that he looked; it was in desperate need of some tender loving care. 

The magical knock that was not a knock had found its culprit; the nearest person inside the house staggered somewhat as magic crawled over their skin, dipping inside their ear. Magnus drummed his fingers on his arm. Now all they had to do was wait. 

The front door swung silently open inward, but Magnus felt the crash in his chest. A man stood in the doorway, towering over his lacklustre garden with all the rage of a King, come to conquer. He had an aura of gloom threaded through his glowering features, but his features were so exquisite that Magnus didn't mind the miserable look. 

“Speaking of tender loving care,” Magnus murmured to himself, eyeing the man up and down. “Somebody fetch me a glove.” 

Max peered curiously around Jace’s hip. 

“I fancy a spot of gardening,” Magnus explained, pointing innocently at the patch of wildflowers.

“Alec, man,” Jace said, shoulders easing even as his voice grew tense. “I found—”

“Another way to piss me off, yeah, I gathered,” the man snapped, reaching up to massage the bridge of his nose. Magnus presumed him to be Alec, and that the magical knock that was not a knock was gathering somewhere between his eyes, giving him a monstrous headache. “What the hell is this?” 

“What's what?” Max piped up. 

“The pounding headache,” Alec said, teeth gritted. “It feels like somebody’s knocking inside my goddamn brain, and I know you usually give me a headache just by being around, but this is ridiculous even for you, Jace.” 

_Jace._ Most of the sentence had been well-structured, snappish and growing in rage, but at the last word Alec faltered. As though the name didn't quite match the feeling the voice evoked. Because it wasn’t Jace that had spoken, and Alec seemed so preoccupied with his headache that he hadn’t actually noticed until just then. 

Alec only had eyes for Max. He reached out and gripped the door-frame tightly. Magnus winced; he knew all too well the feeling of the world dropping out from under your feet, and he wished Alec all the best in staying upright. 

Max, bouncing on the balls of his feet, gave a nervous little wave. “Hey, Alec. I'd ask if you missed me but it's obvious that you're falling apart without me here.” 

Alec stared, opening and closing his mouth. He seemed lost for words, or perhaps just lost. But it turned out he didn’t need words. Alec stumbled out of the house, leapt off the top step and sprinted the last few feet to Max. He staggered into him with all the ferocity of a bullet, taking them both down and sending them sprawling in the grass.

Magnus politely didn't listen to the fierce, grateful whispers that poured out of Alec’s mouth, the cursing and the crack in his voice, nor the sheepish, guilty reassurances that Max muttered in return. He stopped listening at all when both of the voices turned tearful, and Alec whispered, “Thank you, thank you, thank you.” He turned instead to the open door, following Jace to the top step. 

“A very touching scene,” Magnus observed, receiving nothing more than a grunt in agreement. “Brothers, all of you?” 

“Family,” Jace confirmed, shifting a bit. “Alec’s the oldest. I was… I joined them when we were both a bit younger than Max is now. There's Isabelle, too, and I definitely should have mentioned her first. She’s gonna sense it and kick my ass.”

“Four children. Maryse has been busy.”

Jace’s gaze sharpened, but Magnus ignored the attention, studying the door instead. Most of the magic had left the wood, sinking into the floorboards and heading straight for the soft mushy middle of Alec’s brain. He reached out and gave a sharp tug, but nothing happened. There wasn’t enough of his magic in the house itself to do any damage from here. 

“Magnus can fix it,” he heard Max say, startling him out of his observation. “He saved me, and he healed Jace. He can fix your headache.”

“It doesn't count as saving if he kidnapped you in the first place,” Jace said. 

“He didn't kidnap me, I told you,” Max fired back, standing up with Alec’s arm still looped over his shoulders. “It was some lady, and she didn't have anywhere near as much magic.”

Max wiped his eyes, but Alec didn't bother. There were tears on his face, shining on his skin. 

“Fine then.” Jace rolled his eyes. “It doesn't count as healing me when he's the one that hurt me.” 

“Now _that_ I definitely did do,” Magnus said pleasantly. “But I maintain that you deserved it, and I could have left you to rot in that alleyway, but I didn't. Perhaps a little show of decorum, as a thank you? I also accept material goods. Castervine crystals are a new obsession of mine, should you feel obliged.” 

Jace rolled his eyes again, so hard that it must have hurt this time. Magnus was aware of Alec’s bright eyes on him, and he relished the attention. 

“He hurt you?” Alec said. He was still staring at Magnus, so he didn't see the taken-aback look on Jace’s face, nor the way it softened into relief. Magnus didn't have time for all this whispering drama that he rather rudely wasn’t privy to, but he couldn’t help but be a little intrigued; there was something rather tense between the two of them, but they clearly cared about each other. . 

“Nah. Couldn’t even land a hit.”

Magnus scoffed. 

“And I hit him first,” Jace added, before trudging inside as the rain picked up. It left them alone, fading out of existence before it could breach the wards, but there were more determined clouds on the horizon. Jace clearly wasn’t interested in taking his chances.

“So you're Magnus?” Alec asked, pulling Max closer as they trod further up the garden path. Max fit perfectly under his arm, hunched over and suddenly extraordinarily tired. The sight was sweet, there was no doubt, but he also perceived it for the truth it was: a distinct lack of trust. 

“Last I checked,” Magnus said. “Why don't we take this inside, little Lightwoods? I'll see what I can do about that headache, and we can discuss certain… other things out of earshot. You know how the neighbours gossip.”

Magnus kept his smile light and airy, throwing in a wink for good measure, but Alec stiffened at the words. 

There was a shadow lingering near a hanging basket across the road, unaffected by the rain. It was a different sort of shadow to the red-eyed one in the alleyway. Magnus had no doubt that it could hear everything they were saying. He also had no doubt that Alec wouldn't be able to see it, should he turn and look. And Alec didn't trust him with the boy he had _saved,_ let alone inside their safe haven, so there was a fifty-fifty chance that Alec would ignore his subtle warning and start speaking plainly in the daylight. There was an even larger chance that none of them would not step foot inside this house at all, if that happened. 

The shadow shifted across the street. Long tendrils oozed across the damp cobbles, darkening the grey to a thick black. 

“Oh, for Hand’s sake,” Max complained, yanking Alec up the last of the path. “He's not evil, and he saved my life, and if he does turn out to be evil then I really don't care, as long as I get to stop smelling like fucking garbage.” 

“I will wash your mouth out,” Alec warned him, but even he seemed to know it was a lost cause. “Go inside and get clean, and please… please, try not to wander off.”

Magnus stayed quiet while Alec got himself under control. Max hugged Alec round the middle, startling him, and then detached himself, red-faced. 

“I’m fine, Alec,” Max said. “I’m home, aren’t I?”

Alec nodded, a quick jerky movement. “Yeah, you are. You’re home. Go on, then. I’ll be there in a minute.”

Heavens, his voice was so deep. Magnus shivered a little as he drew near. Alec let Max head inside, stomping over floorboards and hollering loudly to anyone that might be home, but he was clearly itching to follow him, to stick close. Nobody could blame him.

Which was why it was a surprise when Alec stopped a mere few inches away from Magnus, both of them standing under the temperamental sky. There was a heat radiating off him, and his hair was curled at the edges; damp from a shower, maybe, and that could have explained why it took him a while to answer the door, but frankly the image stopped there in Magnus’s head.   
Magnus found himself leaning in, much to his own shock. “Pleasure to meet you.”

“You really saved him?”

“I really did. Can I help you with that headache, handsome?”

Alec didn't say anything. His tears had dried up, and now the only thing shining in his eyes was suspicion, plain as day. But that didn't change the fact that he clearly liked looking at Magnus, if nothing else. 

Magnus smiled. 

“You can come in,” Alec said, the tips of his ears darkening despite the scowl on his face. “But don't think for a minute I won't kick you out again if you stir up any trouble. You might have magic, and I might have a headache that feels like someone’s inside there with a hammer, but this is my family, and you seem like trouble. Keep whatever it is you’re dealing with away from us. I only just got them all back, and I’m not about to let you mess anything up, understand?”

Magnus drew back, lips pursing. “Perfectly.”

“Good. Close the door behind you.” 

Alec swept through the door, leaving it wide open. The shadowy tendrils across the street shuddered and darted forward urgently, as if they sensed their prey retreating, but Magnus held up his hand. His own ward sunk into the ground. The air around the house shimmered faintly gold before his ward enveloped the other wards, folding itself over the magic that already lived there, sinking into the runes in the earth beneath the house and melting out of sight. It wasn’t a true ward, and it wouldn't hold for long, but it was better than nothing. 

The shadow stopped where it was, quivering. It didn't move any further forward. 

Alec Lightwood might have had a family to keep safe, but he did not have the monopoly on protective instincts. With a sigh, Magnus threw a jaunty little wave at the stock-still shadow, and closed the green door behind him.


	6. Prudish Pancakes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There were very few days when Magnus didn't look some variation of the word ‘good.’ 
> 
> He just hadn’t expected Alec to appreciate the view too. It sent a delicious thrill through him as possibilities began to bloom.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It’s taken me a while but here! Another update! 
> 
> Hope you’re all well! 
> 
> <3

The wardrobe door clattered to the ground, the sound of its fall softened by a thick layer of dust blanketing the worn carpet. Magnus surveyed the rusted hinges in disgust. 

The Lightwood townhouse was old to the point of disrepair, and it was clear that most of the furniture had come with the house. What he had managed to glean from Max’s tight-lipped family last night was next to useless: after Max had disappeared, there had been a dismal attempt at a search, which prompted Alec to take charge and move out. They had been searching under the radar ever since. That wasn’t even the bare bones of it, but Magnus sensed it might take a while and an exhausting amount of effort to pull the full story out of them.

In any case, it didn't explain the state of this house. The Lightwood family was old and extensive, slinking back into the dark depths of history, and they were far from poor. Not the same Old Money that darkened the veins of most gold ridge families, but they were cut from the same cloth. It was unlikely that they owned this place when there were far fancier mansions in the area, and if they did, it was unlikely that Maryse Lightwood would have sentenced them to live there. 

Humming an idle tune, Magnus picked up the door and leaned it against the beige wallpaper. The lamp in the corner of the room threw the walls into gloomy relief, and he could see years’ worth of smears and dirt gathered in every crevice and crack. Nobody, Lightwood or otherwise, had cleaned in a while. 

Wrinkling his nose, Magnus inspected the contents of the wardrobe, flicking through fragile glossy dresses and threadbare shawls. There were hats and ties at the bottom, partially obscuring a pair of stained loafers, but nothing that would fit him. Mothballs trickled out and rolled beneath the bed when he nudged the pile of hats with his foot. He spotted a boater with potential. 

Magnus had planned on going home last night. He had planned on going home yesterday morning, actually, back to his lofty cave and his smoking radio with a cranberry bun in hand, but the arrival of Max in his life had flung all his carefree plans out of the window. Instead he had ended up eating a stodgy meal of leftover lasagne and green beans downstairs, while Max clung to his brothers in another room, before sleeping off a light case of magical exhaustion. 

Someone knocked on the door, and Max poked his head through when Magnus called out for them to enter. He looked well-rested, which settled something inside Magnus. His sleep pants were too long and had cartoon bats printed all over them. Magnus made a mental note to purchase some for Raphael, who would find them abhorrent and would likely burn them to keep his cold, dead heart warm. But it would, at the very least, make Ragnor laugh. 

“Morning,” Max said, sleepy-eyed and thankfully untainted by the scent of garbage. “Wasn’t sure you were ever gonna get up! You slept for ages.”

“I haven’t used my magic in a while,” Magnus admitted easily enough. “It took more out of me than I anticipated, but it’s nothing a little sleep couldn’t fix.”

“Or a lot of sleep. Izzy says if you want breakfast, you have to come downstairs now before Jace and Alec eat it all, although I don't think they will because she’s a really bad cook and they’re not even downstairs yet.”

“Izzy?”

“Isabelle, yeah.” Max yawned, wide enough that his tonsils made a brief appearance. “She wants to meet you and make sure you’re not gonna kill us in our sleep, or something.”

“Ah, yes. It’s a good job she began her investigation before we all spent the night in the same house, sleeping soundly, isn’t it?” Magnus shooed him away, withdrawing the least moth-eaten dress from the wardrobe. “I’ll be down when I’m presentable. Make sure there’s tea, or I won’t wait for you to fall asleep before I commit murder.”

“I hear that threat like nine times a day, so it doesn’t work anymore. Are you gonna wear a _dress?”_

“Shoo!”

When the room was free of noisy children, Magnus laid the dress out on the bed and tapped his chin thoughtfully. It was dated and frayed, but it was clearly made for a tall woman, and the fabric wasn’t the worst he had ever worked with. It would have to do. He rolled his sleeves up to his elbows and coaxed his magic to coalesce at his fingertips. 

“Time to work a little magic.”

* * *

There was a woman cooking at the stove. Her long black hair was free and curling at the ends, and she wielded a spatula with fiendish, reckless abandon. The countertops were speckled with batter.

“You must be Isabelle,” Magnus said, sweeping into the kitchen. Behind him, dustpans and mops attacked the floor furiously, urged on by swirls of turquoise. “Lovely to meet you. I’m afraid I didn't get a chance to say hello last night.”

Isabelle turned, spatula held aloft, and smiled at him. It was a slow smile, almost satisfied, and it struck Magnus as incredibly cat-like. All resemblance to Maryse vanished in an instant. 

“You’re the Warlock that saved all three of my brothers.”

“Three?”

Isabelle rolled her eyes, accidentally nudging the pan off the hob with her elbow. “Your wards held all night. I noticed them when I came back this morning, and I can’t imagine you’d install them for free if we weren’t in danger. Wards are powerful magic. Ergo, you kept all of them safe.”

“They are powerful magic,” Magnus agreed, tilting his head. “Luckily for you, I’m a powerful man.”

He had perfected the art of making statements like that sound like simple facts, when they could have been arrogant declarations of his skill. They _were_ arrogant declarations of his skill, but they were also full of truth, and Magnus had long since shed his shame of such things. 

“Alec isn’t happy that you did it without asking for permission, but he’s an overprotective idiot.”

Isabelle sounded fond; it was baffling to Magnus, who had always found over-protectiveness to be a flaw that irritated him more than anything. But perhaps that was because there were very few people that felt that way towards him. And perhaps _that_ was an extremely depressing thought to have so early in the morning. 

“Any advice on how I can earn his forgiveness?” Magnus nudged Isabelle gently out of the way, much to her surprise, and rescued the steadily smoking waffles from their charred fate. He sighed and added, “I’m afraid these are unsalvageable, and that says more about your cooking than it does my magic.”

“Whoops,” Isabelle said cheerfully. She hopped up onto the counter, her heels clicking against the cupboards. She was dressed more for a party than a quiet breakfast, though there was no make-up on her face. “I’m not the best when it comes to batter—or anything that has, like, an oven involved—but Max asked for them and then left me alone in the kitchen, so it’s his own fault. I don't suppose you’re any good at pancakes, are you?”

Her voice softened when she spoke of Max. She pouted, leaning forward and widening her pretty eyes. She was beautiful, and fun, but Magnus didn't feel the pinch of attraction that he normally would have around such a person. Too young, anyway. But she was sweet, and he found a bemused smile edging its way across his face as he sent the batter hurling into the trash with a wave of his hand. The mops stilled in the doorway, siphoned of energy. A flock of feather dusters fell from the ceiling. 

“I suppose I could be persuaded to take charge of breakfast, if only so that I don't die of hunger.”

Izzy settled back on the counter with a victorious cheer. “Thank the Hand for that, I thought we’d have to eat Jace’s protein bars.” She snagged a banana from the nearby bowl and pointed it at him. “Oh, and as for Alec, I think he’ll forgive you pretty easily, as long as you keep wearing that.”

Magnus glanced down at his outfit, eyebrow raised. His jacket was the one he wore yesterday, and his jewellery remained the same, but he’d jazzed up the rest. He’d thought it was rather tame, in all honesty, but Izzy’s implication was _interesting,_ and now he was even more eager for Alec to make an appearance. 

He paused as he lifted the pan from the hob, suddenly uneasy. Eager wasn’t a word he could have used to describe himself these last few years. He was rarely eager for anything these days. But in the same way that Max had unearthed a well of concern and curiosity inside him, the rest of the Lightwoods had apparently brought other feelings bubbling to the surface. 

He wasn’t sure that he liked it. 

“I have your tea,” Jace announced, stepping over a mop with an intensely confused look on his face. “I don't know why I have your tea, or why you can’t get it yourself, but I have your tea.”

“You fetch things now?” Izzy cooed, pulling at the banana skin. “Aww, I’m so proud! The training seems like it’s finally paying off.”

Magnus laughed while they bickered, piling pancake batter into the pan. He’d made pancakes eons ago for a little green-horned creature that ate like a starved hound, and his magic remembered the tedious process of trial and error as he perfected the recipe. It swarmed the stove and set about adjusting the heat while Magnus caught the box of tea flung his way. 

“Blackberry tea? Lovely, thank you.”

“I don't get what’s wrong with coffee. You have weird taste.” Jace raised an eyebrow. “And no shirt.”

Magnus glanced down at his outfit again. He _really_ didn't think it was that wild of a sight, but apparently the Lightwoods were prudes. 

His retort was waylaid when Max skidded through the doorway, out of breath and grinning. There was a shout from somewhere in the house, and Max ducked around Jace, grabbing his shirt. 

“I forgive you for the whole being kidnapped thing,” Max said urgently. “But only if you keep me safe from the next attack.”

Magnus glanced up sharply. “Attack?”

“Max!” Alec yelled, his voice growing closer as he stormed through the house. “Max, get back here!”

Izzy sighed, and Magnus caught a flash of silver as she tucked away a knife. He hadn’t even seen her move. “You’ve only been back one night and you’ve already driven him off the edge, haven’t you?”

Max flashed her a grin over his shoulder, still using Jace’s bulk as a shield. “Yep.”

“Good.” Izzy sounded viciously proud.

“If anyone cares, the pancakes are ready,” Magnus said, summoning plates from the cupboard beneath the sink. “Do you have any lemon or sugar? I would have put fruit in them, but you seem to only have two very sad bananas. You are in dire need of a grocery run.”

Max tiptoed closer just as Alec appeared in the doorway, towering over the kitchen with a dark glower. Magnus peered over his shoulder, taking in the dark hair that looked soft and unbrushed, and the crinkles in his grey shirt. His heart performed an unsanctioned waltz about his chest, complete with complementary jazz hands, and he had to blink very rapidly so that he didn't start gaping. 

“Max,” said Alec, through gritted teeth, “that was a really stupid thing to do. We only just got you back, you can’t go around advertising where you are, or risking your safety!”

With narrow eyes, Magnus stretched his awareness. He slid the general aura of magic that surrounded him outwards, inch by inch. It was much like pulling an elastic band, if the band were his brain and the consequence was a recoil so strong it could bludgeon a hole in his skull. He had to be careful not to go farther than he’d already been by foot. 

Jace sighed. “Whatever he did can’t be that bad, Alec.”

“He sent mom a fire message,” Alec snapped. 

From the way the room went cold, Magnus guessed that was a terribly bad move. He urged his magic out a little further. 

Jace stiffened, and Izzy slid off the counter, her smile slipping away like oil. “You did _what?”_

The air shifted as Max stood up straight, prepared to fight, but Magnus felt a small hand clench in the back of his jacket, and he knew that the confidence was false. He turned on his heel abruptly, shifting so that Max was hidden behind him, and slapped his hands together. With a loud crack, the noise of three angry siblings cut off abruptly, and they turned as one to stare at him, baffled. 

The feather dusters rose up warningly. 

“Sit down,” Magnus suggested, with a pleasant smile and a tone that implied dire consequences for those that ignored the suggestion. “Eat your breakfast, and please, for the love of the dear, sweet Hand, stop talking before I feel the need to make you.”

In the silence, Magnus sought out the fire message that was winging its way through the air. He didn't need to look far; there was a spark of heat near the remains of his wards, fluttering madly at the edge of the garden path. There was childish hope and confusion infused in the fabric of the message. He could also feel the desperation of the runes as they tried, to no avail, to break through Magnus’s fading barrier. 

Magnus clicked his fingers, and the plates of pancakes zoomed over to the table, where Jace and Izzy were pulling out chairs begrudgingly. Another, softer click clipped the fire message’s wings, disguised by the belated arrival of sugar at the table. 

“There,” Magnus said, as Jace and Isabelle sat down. “Much better.”

Max released his fistful of jacket and patted him on the back. Magnus took it for gratitude, although he doubted Max would feel the same if he knew the fire message would never reach his mother. 

“I like what you did with the dress, by the way,” Max muttered. 

Warmth and guilt warred for first place in Magnus’s mind. 

“Sit down,” Magnus urged him, and stepped aside. Nobody touched their food until Max sat and piled sugar onto his pancakes, and even then they looked mutinous, although Izzy perked up at the first taste of breakfast. 

Alec was the only one left standing. His pissed off expression might have been frightening if he hadn't been flanked by two equally enraged floating feather dusters.

“Not a fan of pancakes?” Magnus asked, facing him. He didn't miss the way Alec’s gaze shot down and away from his bare chest. 

What Magnus ‘had done’ with the dress could loosely be considered treason in the fashion industries of yore. He had sliced the dress into two parts, dismissing the top and fashioning the long skirt into a pair of billowing, silver-threaded trousers. The cuffs were tight around his ankles, but he was particularly proud of the delicate beadwork around the hem and waistband. He hadn’t bothered with a shirt, merely throwing on his jacket from yesterday, and he knew he looked good. There were very few days when Magnus didn't look some variation of the word ‘good.’ 

He just hadn’t expected Alec to appreciate the view too. It sent a delicious thrill through him as possibilities began to bloom.

“I didn't poison them, if that’s what’s worrying you,” Magnus added, painting on his most dazzling smile. “I happen to be a very good cook, but if you don't like pancakes, I can whip up something else.”

“I like pancakes,” Alec said flatly. “I just don't like being ordered to eat them in my own house.”

Magnus waved a dismissive hand. “Yes, well. You were being ridiculous. Now, far be it for me to criticise you and your family, but the boy’s been missing for how long now?”

“Five weeks,” Jace said, a forkful of food suspended in front of his downturned mouth. “Why?”

“Why?” Magnus gestured at the windows, a very small amount away from openly scoffing. “Five weeks doesn’t seem like much to me, but I’m immortal. Your lives work differently. Five weeks is a substantial length of time for a child to be away from their family. Five weeks should make a mother frantic. It’s hardly surprising that he’d want to contact her, is it?”

“We need to be careful,” Alec insisted. “We can’t just go throwing fire messages at anyone and anything, not when we don't know who could be reading them.”

Jace scoffed very quietly. 

Alec turned to scowl at him instead. “Something to say?”

“Several things to say, but not in front of the baby.”

“I’m not a kid, and I’m sure as hell not a baby,” Max insisted, stabbing at his pancakes. Magnus frowned sadly at the tense line of his shoulders, but he didn't seem very interested in pity, not this morning. He stabbed the pancakes again. “That woman took me, right? Me, not you. I don't get why, but it must have had something to do with us, the Lightwoods. It always _does._ But she took me, not any of you, which means I’m involved. And if I’m involved then I want to know what’s going on. I should get to hear what you have to say.”

Izzy sighed, wiping lemon juice off the rim of the plate with her finger. Jace leaned back against his chair, eyes fixed firmly on the ceiling. Alec didn't say anything, but Magnus could see a hint of exhaustion in his eyes. It poked at his cloaked heart. 

“Perhaps it would be best to start from the beginning,” Magnus suggested. “I imagine Max could do with revealing his adventures, and it seems as though you all have a story to tell too.”

“Will you stay?” Max asked, craning his neck to see Magnus.

“No,” Alec said, at the same time as Magnus said, “Of course.”

They stared at each other in silence. 

Magnus narrowed his eyes thoughtfully. “No?”

Alec was too stern to fidget. “It’s a family matter.”

“You’ve very keen to get rid of me, Lightwood. I’d like to know what I’ve done to offend you, considering I haven’t been around recently, but to be quite honest, I don't care.” Magnus straightened his back and smiled as though he didn't have a care in the world; the lie tasted sour on his tongue, more so because he didn't want it to be a lie. He didn't _want_ to care about these people, and he didn't understand how he had gotten this deeply invested so quickly. “I don't care because I don't have to be here. I have places to go, things to see, people to do.”

He smirked, and Alec scowled at him.

“It makes no difference to me if I walk out of here with everything I know locked tightly away in my lovely little head. But rest assured, if I walk away, I’ll never darken your doorway again. And it might make no difference to me, but trust me…” Magnus shrugged. “It will make a world of difference to you.”

He let the simple warning settle in the thick tension of the kitchen. Alec’s eyes flicked to the back of Max’s neck, where the blue lines webbed the skin beneath his hairline. The fact that he could see them when none of the others could was worrying, but not especially surprising. Magnus hadn’t told them what the lines were yet, and he had no intention of revealing the little he _did_ know until he had some information in return. 

“He’s not…” Alec grimaced, lowering his voice so that only Magnus could hear. “He’s not like you, is he?”

The words might not have been meant to injure, but they pierced some small part of Magnus anyway. 

“Incredibly handsome, clever, and more powerful than anyone in this room?” Magnus raised an eyebrow, smiling sharply enough to show teeth. “No, but he's only young. Give him time.”

“Alec,” Izzy said, pulling out the chair beside her with a loud scrape. “We need him. He saved Max and brought him home to us, so at the very least we owe him a peaceful, non-combative breakfast.” 

“One that he cooked,” Jace muttered. It was unclear whether that was supposed to be supportive or not, but it seemed to take the wind out of Alec’s sails. 

There were no other complaints. Alec took one chair and Magnus took another, and the five of them crammed themselves around the feast of half-eaten pancakes. Max caught his eye over the sugar, but the look there was unreadable. A mix of too many things, of nervous gratitude and fear and hurt, a cacophony of emotion that damn near shone, and Magnus had spent so long _not feeling_ that he had to look away. 

“The wards will keep us from being found, no matter who’s searching,” Alec said, when most of the food was gone. “I don't know if that fire message will reach mom, but if it does, she won’t be able to find us.”

“Unless she already knows where you are,” Magnus pointed out. “This house belonged to your family, so it’s not that much of a stretch to guess that you might be here. And wards are not infallible.” 

He didn't particularly want to make Alec mad, and he had no interest in playing devil’s advocate, but there were simply some things that had to be said. The message wouldn’t reach her, but that didn't mean Alec was right. 

“She hasn’t… visited,” Izzy said, choosing her words carefully. “Not since we left. I don't think she’d have left it go this long without trying to rope us back into everything we left behind, not if she knows where we are. Lightwoods don't abandon family.”

This time, it wasn’t Jace who scoffed, but Alec. And wasn’t _that_ interesting. 

“Explain to me what we did, then,” Alec said, although his voice held no anger at his sister. “Because we’re sitting in a house that doesn’t belong to any Lightwood, and never has, and mom isn’t here. Neither is dad. Last I checked, they were still family.”

“I thought—”

“You thought wrong,” Alec said, cutting over him. “This isn’t a Lightwood property. The only property we have is an Institute, and that’s nowhere near this street. We had contacts inside and outside that helped us find this place, but that’s not your concern.” 

Magnus held his tongue as a cup of steaming hot tea floated across the room. He looped his fingers loosely through the handle and let it hover in front of his face, steeping. From what he knew about Maryse and Robert, they were a crumbling union, held together only by politics and duty. He doubted very much that things had changed that much since he last saw them, but maybe the addition of children had altered things. 

“Why aren’t they here?” Max said quietly, eyes down. “When that woman took me, we were all still living in the Institute. Things were _okay._ What happened?” 

Alec sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. It was the most undone he had let himself look since Magnus had arrived on his doorstep, and it stirred sympathy in his gut. 

“I want the whole story, Alec,” Max said. “I think I deserve to know.”

“Okay.” Alec sighed again, before nodding shortly. He drew himself up, and the vulnerability was gone, locked away behind closed doors. When he spoke, it was with a crisp, clinical detachment, although his eyes were soft where he met Max’s gaze. “I don't know how much you remember from that day, but you disappeared at three minutes past twelve. We were walking to meet Jace for extra training, and when I turned to look at you, you weren’t there. You disappeared between one minute and the next.”

Max shifted in his seat. Magnus wondered if it was just him that saw the guilty look, but from the quiet noise Izzy made in her throat, he suspected not. 

“I remember,” Max said hastily. “And then what?”

“Alec ran to me,” Jace said, picking up the thread of the story. “You weren’t far from me anyway. We found a Guard on patrol and sent them home for help, and we searched the streets. We couldn’t find you anywhere.”

“Because I wasn’t in the Gold Ridge,” Max said, nodding. None of them looked surprised, so Magnus could only conclude that there had been some sort of discussion last night while he slept, or perhaps early this morning, judging by Isabelle’s lack of sleep. 

“Mom looked,” Isabelle added. “We all did. The whole family looked for you, but we couldn’t find you. We even had people searching as far out as the Copper Sands, but whoever had you did a damn good job of hiding you.”

“They pulled our forces, though,” Jace said, curling his fist on top of the table. “After two weeks, they pulled everyone off the streets and said they needed them for other reasons. They let us keep two Guards, just in case, but that was it.”

Max curled in on himself, frowning at his plate. 

“None of us could work out why,” Isabelle hissed, her mouth twisted in frustration. “Peace has been a shaky concept since things went wrong with the Right Hand, but nothing’s happened in a while. Nothing specific, nothing big. And people don't go missing from the Gold Ridge every day, that’s what I don't understand. There should have been a full-scale search. There should have been an uproar! And there was, but then they just let it go.”

Magnus gripped his cup like a lifeline. It was serious, and Max should have been found, but not because he was a Gold Ridge child. He should have been found because he was missing, not because of where he went missing from. 

“You were gone, and nobody was doing enough,” Isabelle said, sounding close to tears. “Including us. I’m sorry, Max.”

Max shook his head frantically, reaching over to grab at Isabelle’s hand. He held it awkwardly, clearly unused to being the reassuring one, but it soothed Magnus's simmering anger. Isabelle was upset, and still reeling from having her brother back. It didn’t mean that she didn’t care for the people in the Copper Sands. People said foolish things when they were hurt or lost. 

“It’s alright,” Max promised. “I don't… I was mad at Jace, before, because he was the first person I saw, and I said some things to all of you but I didn't really mean them. It wasn’t your fault, any of you. I just wanted to know that you looked for me.” He flashed a look at Alec. “All of you.”

“We did.” Alec’s face had grown more and more like stone, unbreakable, as they talked. “We did look, Max. Up until yesterday, we were still looking. That’s why we moved to this townhouse. We couldn’t keep searching up at the Institute, not where they would have known we were using their resources.”

“Who is this ‘they’ you keep referring to?” Magnus asked, although he had a feeling he already knew, and if he was right, he wasn’t going to like the answer.

Isabelle wiped her eyes, still clutching Max’s hand over the table. “The Clave, obviously.”

Dread gathered in Magnus’s chest. Sometimes, being right wasn’t all it was cracked up to be.

“They govern the Below World,” Jace said, as though the answer didn't rip the breath from Magnus’s lungs. “Where the hell have you been?”

“That’s a good question, actually.” Alec eyed him curiously, and Max propped his chin on his hands. All of them turned to look at him as he took one last sip of his tea. “There are only three known Warlocks that aren’t hidden by the Right Hand, and all of them are in the employ of the Clave. If you’re as powerful as you say you are, then shouldn’t we have heard of you? Where _have_ you been?”

“I have been sleeping for thirteen years,” Magnus said grimly, putting down his cup and meeting Alec’s stunned gaze. “And by the sounds of it, I should have woken up a long time ago.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much, if you’re reading along with this story! It means the world to me! <3


	7. Sweetpea

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The sight of Alec’s mouth curling smugly made him want to set something alight. Magnus wasn't sure if he was pissed off or turned on, but the feeling took root and settled, here to stay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Semi-regular updates? Must be a blue moon. Thank you for the lovely comments, and for carrying on with this! <3

On days where everything refused to go as planned, one always reached a point where one simply had to draw a line in the sand. Magnus withdrew a mental marker pen and etched a thick, black line around washing the dishes. 

“You made the mess,” Jace protested, although his heart didn't seem to be in it. “Surely you should clean it up, right? That’s Clary’s logic whenever I make a mess in her house.”

Magnus didn't know who Clary was—although the name rang a bell—and he wasn’t inclined to ask. Jace had the gooey look of a lovelorn, aching man, so it was obviously someone important to him. 

“I didn't hear you complaining about the mess when you were busy devouring it.” Magnus smiled sweetly at him and thrust a dishcloth into his hands. “Besides, I'm going to be a very busy boy this afternoon. I have important mysteries to unravel, and you seem swamped.”

He cast a mock-sad look at the pile of plates and bowls beside the sink, before striding from the room to the soundtrack of Jace’s reluctant laughter. He waved at Isabelle and Max as they disappeared into one of the less ghastly living rooms, where presumably Max was going to be investigated for injuries and lasting trauma. He wished him luck; Isabelle did not seem like someone to let one of her brothers go once she got her claws into them. 

He was halfway to the front door when Alec stepped out from behind a cabinet. There was a rather large telephone on top, but considering it wasn’t the shape of Alec’s head, that was no excuse for not spotting him. 

“Skulking in the shadows? Your dark, drab attire makes more sense now.”

“I was waiting for you,” Alec said. 

“Mmm, doesn’t _that_ send a shiver down my spine.” 

“I need to talk to you about Max. I didn't want to say anything in front of the others, and when I asked him questions, he didn't have any answers. But those blue marks on his skin… why can’t Izzy and Jace see them?”

Magnus cast a look over his shoulder, but the hallway was empty. “I imagine that nobody else but Max and his caster would be able to see the marks, unless the caster decides otherwise. They have complete control.”

“Then why can you see them?”

“I have twenty/twenty vision.” 

“Bane.”

“I happen to be a Warlock, you may have noticed,” Magnus said lightly, patting him on the arm as he headed for the main door. “If you're trying to ask whether I’m the caster, then you're doing a shoddy job of using your brain. The caster likely didn't anticipate the volume of my power, or that Max would encounter it. The question is, why can _you_ see them?”

“What the hell are you implying?” Alec followed Magnus out of the house, his menacing leather boots making little to no sound, even on the hard ground outside. The front door slammed shut behind them, and they paused on the doorstep, blinking in the bright sun. The rain had stopped, washing away the grit and tension of last night, and in its place was something new.

“I’m implying that the caster intended for you to see the blue marks, should Max ever return to you. The caster modified the magic so that Max, the caster, and _you_ were able to see the marks. Specifically you. _Only_ you. And me, although as I said, that was unintentional.”

Stepping down onto the garden path filled Magnus with a rush of freedom. His home loitered high in the sky among cloud-born caves, and even in sleep he had felt the cool kiss of air every time he breathed. The townhouse was stuffy, the windows were all fastened shut and dust clogged the air. Even inside the bubble of wards, the fresh air was a welcome relief. 

“I can tell you want to ask me questions,” Magnus said, when he reached the gate. 

“I want answers,” Alec corrected him. “I don't want to have to ask you anything.”

“Sadly, I'm the only one with the answers, and I only respond to very polite questions. You may want to think about why they wanted you to see the marks.”

“I’m not as stupid as you’ve assumed,” Alec said drily, following him out onto the street. They walked at a steady pace, with Alec keeping pace despite not knowing where Magnus intended to go. “They captured Max while he was with me. They knew I was important to him, and that he’d probably return to me if he ever escaped. I’d see the marks, I’d be afraid for Max, I’d start asking questions, and eventually the answers would land me right in the lap of the caster, and Max along with me.”

Magnus turned to walk backwards, briefly, and flashed Alec a winning smile. “Who’d have thought? There is a brain behind that pretty face of yours.”

Alec scoffed, but he could not quite hide his pleased smile. It softened him, that smile, and it sent a worrying curl of pleasure through Magnus’s stomach that he squashed immediately. 

Goodness, this man was dangerous. 

“The spell that activated those marks is called a Safety Net, and it does exactly what you said it does,” Magnus explained, as they turned onto a new street. “It’s supposed to be a fallback, a last resort to unnerve family and friends of people that are taken and manage to escape. There’s no trace of other magic upon it, and no way of using it for tracking. It’s just the very first breadcrumb.”

“But he’ll be okay.” It was not a question. 

“It’s harmless for now, at least physically, although he may feel tired from magical strain. His body isn’t supposed to host foreign magic, not for long periods of time. There are two runes that play a part in this spell, and unfortunately I don't have access to the second rune yet.” Magnus smiled a dark smile as he headed for yesterday’s alleyway. “But I will. He will be okay, especially if I have anything to say about it.”

Alleyways were not Magnus’s first port of call for a thrilling day out, but he seemed to be spending a lot of time in them recently. It would have been easier to portal to the alleyway to avoid suspicion, but he simply didn't have the energy. The regret for making a portal in the first place hadn’t quite hit him yet, but there was no doubt that it soon would, and he would need to do some damage control when it did. The less visible magic he did until then, the better. 

Alec whistled softly through his teeth, scanning the farthest corners of the alleyway. “Jace told me what happened, although I think he left some important bits out. You left your mark on this place.”

“Oh, that. That’s where I trapped your brother in a pile of bricks,” Magnus said pleasantly, gesturing at the scarred ground that Alec was examining. His magic had left vicious gouges in the cobbles, like a monstrous vole had burrowed down deep into the dark. It had been smooth when they left, with the bricks in their rightful places and the cobbles sitting serenely in their seats, but it must have undone itself while he dreamed. 

Magic was tricky. Some magic was permanent, and some magic was self-mending, and some magic had a mind of its own. It was about the act and the intention, and all Magnus had intended to do yesterday was fix things up quickly and drop off to sleep. 

“Not Max, of course,” Magnus added. “He was busy rolling around in the garbage. But your other, moodier brother with the square face makes a nice statue.”

“Is square bad?” Alec glanced up, his voice purposely light. 

“Not inherently, but he’s not to my tastes.”

“Most people think Jace is handsome.”

“Oh, don't lump me in with most people, darling.” Magnus let his tone turn suggestive. “I prefer a face to be grumpy, pretty, and prone to blushing.”

Alec glared at him, but he _was_ blushing, and that was enough to make Magnus grin as he knelt amongst the fallen garbage cans. The litter had mysteriously disappeared, and the ground was as clean and clear as cobblestones could be. The only trace of their little skirmish was the empty trash cans themselves, lying forlornly on their sides, and the magical disarray. 

“Whatever you’re looking for, I can’t imagine it’s still here. This place looks like it was picked clean.” Alec stalked closer, curling one hand over the blade dangling from his belt. “Did you see something during the fight?”

“No,” Magnus said, scanning the ground with slitted eyes. He kept his head tilted away so that Alec wouldn’t see the sickly yellow irises. “But I saw someone, and I want to be sure about who it was before I raise a little hell.”

“If you set anything on fire, you’ll be sleeping in the garden. Or with Jace. He kicks.”

Magnus laughed. There was always a chance that he might set something on fire, but not until later, and not without good cause. He grazed his fingers over the cobbles, but they were dry, clean, and utterly useless. His eyes saw nothing beneath it, either; no marks, no spells, no wards. He cursed silently and applied his glamour again, using the barest of touches to shield his cats eyes from view. 

“Whoever you saw really doesn't want to be found,” Alec observed idly. “But they must know you, which makes this whole thing stranger. Who is it?” 

Standing, Magnus brushed off his trousers and raised an eyebrow. “What makes you say that?”

“It's obvious.” Alec rolled his eyes. “You said you saw someone in the alley, and you've gone straight to where you saw them last, which happens to be where the trash cans are. Max came back stinking of garbage, but there's nothing on the ground. Streets are cleaned up on Wednesdays, and even if they'd changed the day, they would have picked up the trash cans. So whoever you saw came back, or they never left, and they cleaned up anything that could have lead you to them. They know your abilities, but they didn't bother with the trash cans because on the surface, it's supposed to look like nobody else was here.” 

Magnus couldn’t help but laugh at that, but the rest of his mind was occupied with a flash of appreciation; the analysis was unexpected, but correct, which only made Alec more attractive. 

“Actually, I imagine Raphael was just being lazy and didn't want to pick them up. He doesn't like to lift more than my blood pressure.”

In the sudden silence, Magnus examined the ground, but there really was nothing there. No clues on the cobbles, no marks on the walls, and nothing in or on the trash cans. Sighing, Magnus fiddled with one of his rings as he made for the mouth of the alley, but something stopped him. 

Alec was not moving. He stood stiffly beside a trash can, and his face was pale. There was an expression there that he didn't like, a tightness where before he had started to ease into comfort. 

“I don't know about you, darling, but I have nicer places to be than this alley.” Magnus cocked his head, smirking. “And if you don't, I'm sure I can fix that for you.” 

Alec remained silent. His jaw was glued shut, and perhaps bolted shut too, Magnus mused, peering closely. Alec didn’t strike him as someone to fall silent over nothing; it was unnerving. He stepped forward, concerned, and hesitated a few inches away. He kept forgetting that he was new to these people, and he barely knew this man. And what he _did_ know proved that Alec likely didn't want him close. 

“Something the matter?” 

Alec unglued his jaw and gritted out, “Raphael?”

Inhaling sharply, Magnus went very still. He had never liked the saying ‘blood ran cold’ because he found the connotations unfair, and fear had never chilled him before. Fear turned him hot and gasping and useless, whereas he knew plenty of cold people with the warmest of hearts. Raphael was one of those people. He'd said Raphael’s name, because he was a _fool,_ and now Magnus felt cold all over and Alec was putting the pieces together. It wasn't a very difficult puzzle, in all fairness, but Magnus would have liked the picture to remain unclear a little longer. 

“You know him, then. Raphael.” Alec gripped the hilt of his blade, but he didn't withdraw it, glancing sideways at the street. “This isn't a conversation we should have outside.”

“We don't have to have this conversation at all. There are a great many people in the world with that name.”

“Maybe in the Above World, although I doubt it, but not in this one. Not since we came across.”

“Since we came down, technically,” Magnus corrected, but he conceded the point. Raphael was a fairly uncommon name in these parts, and it was unlikely that he had been referring to another random Raphael with spying tendencies. His heart picked up its pace and he spun through his options. 

“Beneath, if you want to be very technical about it.” 

Magnus stared, shocked. When Alec marched out of the alleyway, he followed at a slower pace. He half-expected Alec to slow down to keep an eye on him, or try and drag him forwards, but he did neither. He kept at the same pace, a little way ahead of Magnus, and did not turn his head. 

“Not many people know that we’re beneath our old world,” Magnus said, quiet enough that a passing lady could easily ignore their existence. “Just as not many people know of my many infamous acquaintances, including a certain someone that rhymes with Quabriel.” At Alec’s snort, Magnus grinned quickly before growing solemn. “I'd like to keep it that way.” 

“That doesn’t rhyme.” Alec looked at him askance. “This still isn't a conversation we should be having outside.”

And so they didn't speak. The conversation was shelved and they walked instead, weaving through the people in their leather boots and buckled shoes, drinking in the scent of exquisitely expensive perfume. 

It did not escape his notice that they weren't heading for the townhouse. If anything, they were retracing the route he and Max had taken yesterday. Maybe Alec was going to escort him out of the gold ridge entirely. Magnus refrained from asking questions until he saw something familiar. The streets narrowed briefly before widening again, bending into a semi-circle that housed flowerbeds and postboxes, and blooming mango trees that embraced the sky. A fruity scent was heavy in the air. Up ahead, Magnus could see the metal gates that encircled the more important government establishments, like the Institute that the younger Lightwood’s had abandoned. Each spoke of steel dug deep underground and glinted like a rich man’s toothpick.

“You’ve just proved that you’re quick and smart,” Magnus said, flexing the fingers of his left hand, where his power was growing antsy. “Please don’t undermine that by doing something incredibly stupid now.” 

“I assume by ‘incredibly stupid’ you mean something law-abiding and sensible.”

Law-abiding wasn’t a strong enough word to describe the Lightwoods. They were just one remnant of an angelic race that had all but died out without their Demon-fighting cause, and Alec might have lead the march away from his family, but he hadn't forgotten all that came with their history. The law was more than a law to those that used to hunt shadows. It was blood and duty, and they were bound to it. If he decided to try and take Magnus in, nothing would sway him from his decision. 

“Calm down,” Alec said, before Magnus could wrap himself in invisible threads. “I’m not reporting you to anyone, and I'm not taking you in.”

Magnus shook the first touch of cotton and air from his mind and caught up, keeping stride now. He was only a few inches shorter than Alec, a nothing measurement, and it was easy to catch his eye as they turned down another curved street. 

“I like your confidence, but let's not get too carried away.”

Alec snorted. “The feeling’s mutual. I could take you in if I wanted to. You have magic, but when's the last time you held a sword, or shot an arrow?”

The street turned again, this time into a path framed with more townhouses. Distantly, Magnus recognised the clash of metal somewhere to their left, beyond the ivy creeping up the walls around them like stubborn quilts. He hated to admit it, but he would likely struggle in hand-to-hand combat. He had no doubt that Alec trained ruthlessly every day, and he'd been a little… ah, _lax,_ as of late. 

Clearing his throat, Magnus fluttered his hand to the left. “Training grounds?” 

The sight of Alec’s mouth curling smugly made him want to set something alight. He wasn't sure if he was pissed off or turned on, but the feeling took root and settled, here to stay. 

“Yeah, it's where I was taking Max that day. Jace spends most of his time there and mom wanted us all out of the house, not to mention Max needs training if he wants to join us on patrols. But we’re not going there. We’re going here.” 

Here turned out to be three more steps down the same street, before they stopped. Magnus looked at the archway above them, tinted red with brick dust, where the two houses either side of them bridged. The slatted windows shone in the pale light. Someone had tossed a dustpan full of dirt out of the window that day, and the cobbles were mucky where the filth had congealed and sweated in the sun. Grimacing, Magnus turned slowly on his heel, taking in the street. 

“This is a nice quiet spot, Alexander. I do hope you're not planning anything untoward.” 

“This is where Max went missing.” 

He tried to imagine it, but he couldn't. He tried to imagine walking with a young boy, a brother, and losing them between one blink and the next. Faces flashed through his mind, and Magnus curled his hands into fists. He didn't like this. He didn't like the way his heart swelled and threatened to burst in his chest, the way it drowned out everything rational. Magnus hadn't wanted to sink, so he had drowned his feelings instead. 

Alec stood there, brazen in his heartbreak. That soft lost look on his face was openly visible, thrown into sharp relief by the grey sunlight. Looking at him was like looking at an open flame, a beating heart unearthed from a bed of flesh. 

“He was right here, next to me,” Alec continued. “I was talking about something, about Jace, I think. He'd been moody all day and I wasn't paying attention. I thought if I ignored the snappy comments, he'd stop sulking.” 

“You don't have to explain,” Magnus said quietly. _I'd really rather you didn't._

“I want to know who took him.” 

Alec strode to the nearest wall and put his stele to it, digging a crystal of light out of his belt. Magnus hadn't seen a stele in a while, not one in proper use. The shadowhunters had been a force of nature in the Above World. Magnus had met many over the years, more than enough to last a lifetime, and there was no denying their ruthless nature, their grace and speed and ferocity. They were beautiful, deadly, and sometimes utterly stupid. They wielded blades and steles, searing their angels’ runes onto every willing surface. 

But when the first of the portals opened, and those that weren't mundanes were ferried through into the Below World, the Shadowhunters had fallen fast and hard. Still rich, still beautiful, but with no real need to be deadly. 

There were no Demons to hunt in the Below World.

“You have magic, and you keep telling me you're an incredibly powerful Warlock.” Alec withdrew his stele, a mark burning like a cigarette stub on the wall under his careful hand. “Help me find who took him.” 

“This isn't where I thought today would lead, you know. I pictured a light stroll, as series of obvious clues, and an illuminating chat with an old friend. Perhaps a danish, if one became available.” 

Alec narrowed his eyes. “So you're not going to help.” 

“Not like this.”

“What are you doing here, if you're not going to help?” Alec snapped. “You said you can't trace the magic on Max, but you can trace the magic from before that, right? Max said someone came out of a wall and took him, so it must be one of these walls. You said you wanted to help. You saved him and followed him home, and you must want to keep him safe or you wouldn't have put up wards.”

“I wouldn't say—” Magnus began, only for Alec to cut him off with a hissed curse word. 

“I don't know why you're so determined to prove you don't care about him, but fine.” Alec stalked forward until they were toe to toe. “I didn't sleep last night. I kept thinking he was going to disappear again.” There was a deeply worrying urgency to Alec’s tone. “He's not leaving that townhouse until I know the person who did this has been caught, and I won't send anything to anyone in case it might be intercepted. I need help, Magnus.” 

Over Alec’s shoulder, Magnus caught sight of a shadow shifting. Shadows shifted all the time; it was how they liked to wile away the tedious hours in each endless day, but this was a different sort of shifting. A focused, purposeful shifting. 

“Either help me find Max’s kidnapper, or I’ll take you in,” Alec said grimly. “I don't know how you know Raphael, but the Clave won't care about the details.” 

If shadowy tendrils could perk up, then this one did. Magnus reached up and grasped Alec’s collar, cutting him off mid-way through his admittedly effective blackmail attempt. 

“There is something behind you, listening in,” Magnus announced very quietly. “Be careful what you say, Alexander.”

To his immense surprise, Alec listened. There was no hesitation as he used Magnus’s grip to spin him, pinning him to the wall and then shielding him with his body. Magnus swallowed a surprised cry, rooted to the spot. All he could see was the back of Alec’s head, and the thick soft hair that curled at the nape of his neck. 

“I don't see anyone,” Alec said lowly, but he stopped speaking abruptly, closing his mouth with a solid click. 

The shadow was waving. A tentative, wiggling little wave that put Magnus in mind of tiny fingers. It peeled away from the ground and stood like a stem, tissue-thin, waving at them. 

Hesitantly, Alec lifted a hand and waved back. Magnus tried not to be thoroughly charmed by the action, but it was impossible. 

“You're adorable,” Magnus uttered in Alec’s ear, relishing the jerk of his head and the bloom of red on his neck. 

“Shut up and tell me whether I'm waving at a friend of yours.” 

The shadow slunk closer, the tip of the tendril bending curiously. Like a cocked head. 

“We've never been introduced, but I caught sight of several shadows outside your house yesterday. That’s why I put my own wards up.” Magnus slid out from behind Alec, brushing up against him as much as possible and laughing silently at his stiff glare. “I thought it had ill intentions, but now it seems harmless. Almost…”

“Innocent,” Alec said, as the shadow swayed, dancing to its own tune. 

Magnus paused. Alec was right, but not quite right at the same time. There was a deeper possibility here, something that Magnus did not want to explore, but something that rumbled and roared beneath his feet, inescapable. The words snagged in his throat as he tried to force them up. 

“Innocent,” Magnus agreed, clearing his throat. “One might say childish.” 

In the silence that followed, the shadow continued to dance. 

Alec crouched suddenly, one knee digging into the cobbles. He put his stele down ever so gently and lifted that hand, waving again. His hand was steady as anything, but the rest of him was shaking. The shadow bobbed towards him immediately, curling around his outstretched fingers like a cat.

“Hello sweetpea,” Magnus said, kneeling beside them. “I think perhaps you've been sent to find us, but whatever you've been told, I can assure you it isn't true. We’re lovely people, and Alec is only grouchy in the mornings. Is anyone else listening?” 

He didn't truthfully expect an answer, but the shadowy tendrils wrapped around Alec’s hand and played with his thumb until it was pointed down. 

Alec grinned proudly. “That's a no, but that means you can hear us. I'm Alec, and I’m only grouchy around Magnus, actually. Listen, can you lead us to you?” 

The thumb stayed pointed down, and the shadowy tendril gave Alec’s hand a little shake, as though to emphasise it. Alec’s face spasmed momentarily, a darkness there that echoed the hollow in Magnus’s chest. 

“That's alright,” Alec said. “Do you want to be where you are? Are you safe?” 

Magnus held his breath, but Alec’s thumb remained firmly pointed at the ground. He swallowed and met Alec’s dark gaze. 

“Okay,” Alec said. “You do whatever you have to do, okay?” 

Alarmed, Magnus raised his eyebrow, but Alec kept on speaking. 

“We can't let you inside the townhouse, but anything you hear or see from us when we’re outside, you can report back, okay?”

The shadow flipped Alec’s thumb until it was pointed up. It was such a relief to see a positive reaction that Magnus felt all his alarm leave him. There was no harm in Alec’s succession. 

“Wonderful,” Magnus said, and he meant it. “I've been in the market for a better shadow, you know—my last one caused a lot of trouble. Stay however long you can each time, but don't get into trouble, sweetpea. The last thing we want is for you to get hurt, but rest assured we’ll search for you until you’re safe and sound.” 

“We'll find you,” Alec added, though his words were slow to come as he dragged his eyes away from Magnus. “Don't report that bit back though.” 

The shadow skated along Alec’s hand in a dizzying whirl, and then spun over the ground and up Magnus’s cheek. Magnus lifted his hand and held it there gently, eyes half-closed as he poured every ounce of reassurance he could through his skin. The shadow was barely tangible, and there wasn’t enough substance there to leave any of his own magic on the translucent surface, so a touch and a thought would have to do. He heard Alec’s sharp intake of breath. The shadow rested there against his cheek briefly before speeding off, evaporating in the sunlight. 

“Fuck,” Alec said, his voice thick. “That wasn't… that was a child. A kid, Magnus.” 

Magnus opened his eyes and stared at the spot where the shadow had been. The world felt heavier. He nodded woodenly. 

“Fuck,” Alec said again. 

His knees creaked as he stood. At once he was older than the stars and younger than he had ever been. It took a lot to shake him, these days, but now as he stood beneath the sun and shook beneath the barrage of his own memories, he could still feel the shadow on his cheek. A touch of cold. 

“I slept for thirteen years,” Magnus said, speaking almost absentmindedly to the walls and the listening sky. “I had a good reason, or so I thought. Years of nothing but dreaming and resting, and dreaming again. You’d think I would wake up refreshed and ready to face the day, but I’ve come to realise that it doesn't matter how long you rest in this world. It is filled to the brim with people who do nothing but tire your heart.” 

Alec stood so slowly that it put him in mind of a tree unfolding, growing over the years from acorn to mighty oak. “Maybe. But there are good people in it, too.” Alec swallowed, and then said, “Like you.” 

It was enough to snap Magnus back to life. 

“Me?” Magnus gaped. “Ten minutes ago you were blackmailing me like it was your job, darling.”

Alec shrugged. “It falls under my contract sometimes. Or it did, before. But I wouldn't have done it.” 

Magnus begged to differ, but he begged privately, in the cynical comfort of his own mind. “Oh?” 

“Maybe to save Max. But I don't think I'd be able to go through with it.” He laughed a little humorlessly, gesturing at Magnus. “Don't get me wrong, I want to. I still want to find who stole Max and I want to know that he's safe, and I'd do a lot to protect my family. But like I said. You're one of the good people in the world.” 

Magnus felt ill. That dark part of him that he kept leashed to the shadows rose up, hissing a laugh, but Magnus batted it away. He dressed himself in airs and graces instead, unsmiling. 

“What a delightful turn of events. You're going to give me whiplash.” 

“I'm serious,” Alec said. “You’re going to help that kid, aren't you?” 

Stumped, Magnus opened his mouth. Then he closed it again. For half a minute he warred with his own mind, and the words that it wanted to use, before finally he gave in. 

“Of course,” he said softly, because there was no question about it. There had never been a question about it, not until Alec had posed one. Someone was in trouble, and Magnus was going to help them.

Alec nodded, just one little nod that said more than all the words in the world ever could. It was a nod of satisfaction, of knowing. He had already known that Magnus would help, and it sent a bolt of tangled fear and wonder through him. Nobody had known him for a long time. Even Magnus wasn’t sure what went on in his own head half the time. 

“Because you're a good person,” Alec said, like it was a simple fact of life and not an earth-shaking, rug-sweeping statement. “I don’t have to like you to know that you’re a good person.” 

Alec then went about the swift business of shaking off their strange mood, entirely unsympathetic to the internal crisis Magnus was suffering from. It had always mattered before, that people liked him. They had always had to like him to want to help him, or to believe he had their best interests at heart. 

“Right, we need to go home. We’ll go back and talk to the others, and figure out what to do. I don't think it's a massive leap to make, that there's two missing children in the gold ridge.”

“Technically one isn't missing anymore,” Magnus added. “But yes, you're right. I imagine it's all connected. Life does enjoy being difficult, doesn't it?” 

They walked mostly in silence, but for the odd comment. Alec didn't mention Raphael once. Shadows darted in and out of shops and doorsteps, but they were the normal sort that came attached to people. A few shot him strange looks, almost as though they recognised him, and Magnus felt the beginning of that promised regret surge up through him. It had been stupid to make a portal in broad daylight, where everyone could see him. Stupid and entirely understandable, given the circumstances. 

“You should stay with us,” Alec said, on the front steps to the house. Through the kitchen window, music was playing from a wireless not unlike the one Magnus had left smoking in his bedroom. It was a jaunty tune that he didn’t recognise, but he liked the beat of it. 

“Here, I mean,” Alec added, nodding at the front door. The knocker needed polishing. “You can keep the room and have your stuff brought over, as long as nobody sees.” He glanced down at Magnus’s bare chest. “Clothes too, if you want.” 

Perking up, Magnus raised an eyebrow. “Only if I want? Oh that doesn’t seem fair, not when there’s plenty of us in the house. We’ll put it to a vote, and most hands in the air decides whether I’ll wear more clothes.” 

“I didn’t say more,” Alec protested, blustering his way into a much deeper hole. “And I meant—oh, fuck it.” 

“I was under the impression that you despised my company,” Magnus pointed out, taking pity on him. “Surely you can’t have changed your mind that quickly?” 

The music shot up in volume suddenly, startling them both. He heard twin shouts from inside and a laugh, but when Alec just rolled his eyes he assumed it was safe. 

“I haven’t changed my mind,” Alec said. 

“Then…” Magnus left the question open, with plenty of room for Alec to fill in the blanks, but nothing came of it. He stayed stubbornly silent. Magnus heaved a sigh of the greatly beleaguered and said, “I suppose I can stick about, provided I have permission to decorate. We need to work out our next steps, and find the second half of Max’s rune. For now, though, I’m going to fix your wards.” Magnus wrinkled his nose. “I don’t know what the designer was thinking, but they’re utterly dreadful.” 

There was a very small smile on Alec’s face. He got the impression that it didn’t want to be there, and wasn’t sure what to do with these new surroundings. He made a mental note to coax a few more smiles from Alec, if only to stop the strange prickliness he exhibited whenever Magnus was around. 

A shirt might go a long way in that regard too, but that was firmly Plan B. 

“If that’s all,” Magnus said, fluttering his fingers at Alec's formidable torso. “Off with you, I have magic to attend to. And you have siblings to rein in.” 

The music had reached a deafening pitch, overshadowed only by the screeches and indignant shouts. 

Before Magnus could step back down onto the path, Alec caught him by the elbow and hesitated. “I still have a headache.”

“You do? It should have faded overnight.” Magnus frowned, lifting a hand and pausing with his palm inches from Alec’s forehead. Alec did not like him, nor did he trust him. He hadn’t changed his mind yet. It was unlikely that he’d want Magnus’s hands all over him, no matter how much time he might have spent looking at them today. “May I?”

With a jerky nod, Alec pressed forward, closing the distance between them. It sent that same jolt through his stomach. Magnus rested his palm on Alec’s forehead and took a deep breath, reaching out with the blue tendrils that lived in his soul. He caught the sticky thread of a pulsing ache and withdrew his hand with a soft sigh. 

Up close, Alec smelled of coffee and soap, and the spaces beneath his eyes were bruised. He was young, Magnus realised with a sad smile. A sharp mind, and a maturity beyond his years, but still young. Very young and very tired, and even if he had taken to leadership like a duck to water, it was still taking a toll. It was an awful lot of pressure, to protect so many. 

“I’m afraid this is an ache of your own making, darling,” Magnus said. As he dropped his hand, he let his fingers graze Alec’s cheek and pushed some of his sparks into the bone hidden beneath the softness. The sparks morphed into a smooth, transparent membrane and weaved towards Alec’s pain sensors, numbing them for a small while. The tension around Alec’s neck and jaw receded instantly, and his eyes relaxed. 

“There. Your own personal supply of magical pharmaceuticals. That should take the edge off the pain, but you need rest and a few good meals to keep it at bay.”

“Thanks,” Alec said, reaching up to touch his head with no small amount of awe. His gaze seared through Magnus, warming him to the bone. Magnus had the thought again; this man was dangerous. “Seriously, thank you.” 

“My pleasure.” Magnus cleared his throat and urged Alec away. His hands continued to flutter like birds long after Alec had left. He turned sharply away from the house with its squabbling siblings and inviting doors, and remained in the garden until dinner had passed. 

There was much to think about, and the danger inside—although different, and nicely packaged—was far more of a concern than the danger lurking beyond the garden gate.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed! Say hi!! <3


	8. A Slice of Peace

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some secrets were sleepy-eyed men in their pyjamas, Magnus thought with amusement, and some secrets were highly illegal laboratories stashed away in the basement.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As the chapter title implies — this is a bit of peace before everything explodes, and I hope you like it! I love writing Isabelle, especially in her sciency element! <3

The Lightwood townhouse hid many secrets behind its red brick walls. Some—like how the occupants rarely slept, argued often, and barely knew how to feed themselves—were less like secrets and more like common knowledge. Some secrets—like how utterly vulnerable and soft Alexander Lightwood looked when he slumped downstairs in the mornings, grouchy and vaguely curly-haired—were closely guarded and thrilling to unearth. And there were some that were very carefully hidden, only so that they could be revealed at precisely the right moment for maximum dramatic effect. 

“Ta-da!” Isabelle flung one arm out in an elegant motion, showing her perfect white teeth as she smiled from ear to ear. “Welcome to my little slice of peace.” 

Some secrets were sleepy-eyed men in their pyjamas, Magnus thought with amusement, and some secrets were highly illegal laboratories stashed away in the basement. 

“Peace is an odd word to describe a place packed with explosives.” He tapped a glass cabinet lightly, taking in the odd silver sticks lining the inside. “These look an awful lot like Steles. Or something pretending to be a Stele.”

“Those are boring,” Isabelle said, hooking him by the elbow and tugging him towards the other side of the room. “I didn't peg you for the boring type. Come and play with the fun stuff.”

“I have been called many things,” Magnus said, with great amounts of dignity, “but never boring.”

Laughing, Isabelle took him on a whirlwind tour of her lab. She handed him a white coat and a pair of goggles, glaring until he slipped them on obediently, and she slipped on a pair of thin, elastic gloves to handle the stickier stuff. The walls were a darker red than the outside of the house, lit with long fluorescent lights. The floor was steel, presumably because Isabelle enjoyed spilling various things all over the place to see what would happen. She was smart and electric, dancing from place to place while things fizzed and gurgled in bottles. 

“I didn't peg you for a scientist,” Magnus said, halfway through mopping up the latest mess. 

“Most people don't. It’s because my cooking sucks, I think.” Isabelle winked at him from behind her workstation, a pipette held aloft. “Nobody expects me to be good at this when I can barely stop my toast from burning, but the fun part about science is that sometimes, when things blow up or catch fire, the results are a lot tastier than what you intended to happen. That’s never the case with toast.”

When the mopping was done, and Isabelle had finished wiping down the vials she had used, Magnus sat on the basement stairs and waited for her to join him. 

“So what do you need?” Magnus asked. 

“Other than, like, a lot of food?” Isabelle shrugged. “Nothing, why?”

“I assumed you wanted an update on your brother. I’ve been researching the runes, of course, but they’re tricky.” Magnus frowned, thinking of the books he would need to summon soon. “Warlocks use demonic languages to cast complicated spells like a Safety Net, which has to be long lasting, and I’m ashamed to say that I don't know this particular demonic language. It’s obviously a newer variety, something that’s cropped up in the last few years.”

It was becoming increasingly hard not to regret hiding from the world for so long. His naps had never lasted so long before, but Magnus had been tired to the bone when he built his home so high in the sky, where nobody could see him. He had been tired of dodging calls and persistent visits, and he could see what was brewing on the horizon, but he had wanted no part in it. Most days, he still did not regret it. But right now, with so many things that he didn't know, Magnus wanted to go back in time and slap himself silly. 

It wasn’t like him at all, to shut the world away. Shut himself away, yes, and hide everything important somewhere deep inside. But not the rest of the world. 

Isabelle had opened her mouth, but she closed it again, cocking her head. A minute later she opened it again and asked, “Are you sure it’s a Warlock?”

“Of course.” Magnus shrugged. “I'm the flashiest one out there, but there are more Warlocks than just me, you know.”

“Right,” Izzy agreed, nodding slowly. There was a flash of something in her eyes, some sliver of knowledge that made him uneasy, but she didn't share it. “Right, so it’s a Warlock. I guess you’ll know who to ask better than me. It’ll go a lot faster if you have help, we’ll just have to do it quietly.”

Magnus blinked in surprise. It hadn’t occurred to him to bring his old friends into this; it had been a long time since he talked to any of them, and though he knew they probably wanted to see him by now, he was still reluctant to drag them into danger. 

But Isabelle was right. He needed all the help he could get. 

“But I didn't bring you down here to drag answers out of you. I know you’re doing your best, and it hasn’t been that long since you started looking for answers.” Isabelle patted his knee, smiling sweetly, and Magnus couldn’t help his bemused smile. 

“Thank you, dear. But you must have invited me down here for a reason,” Magnus said, because it seemed impossible that there was an alternative option. “Something on your mind?”

Isabelle perked up, reaching up to untangle her plait. “Yes, actually. Max mentioned something about an exploding lamp when he described your daring rescue, but when I bugged him for answers, he didn't know how you did it. So I guess I _do_ want answers from you, after all.”

“I explained it to him,” Magnus said, before pausing to frown lightly at the wall. “Well, come to think of it, I might have just rambled about gold panning and then set some things on fire.” He waved a dismissive hand while Isabelle laughed at him, her fingers still caught in the dark, silky strands of her hair as she attacked her braid. “Nevertheless, there was some sort of explanation there. It was just a little obscure.”

“Unobscure it then,” Isabelle said. Her grin faded as she yanked on her knotted hair-tie. “Inquiring minds want to know, oh my _Hand,_ did I spill shit in this?”

“Anything you spilled in your hair would probably have eroded it, knowing what you keep down here.” Magnus eyed the supply of highly corrosive salamander tails locked in a nearby cabinet and shook his head. “Stop torturing your scalp. Let me do that, and I’ll let you pick my enormous, genius brain.”

“Why do men always have to mention how big their body parts are?” Isabelle muttered, but she gladly swung to put her braid within reach. 

“Because our fragile egos are enormous, too.”

“That, I believe.”

Isabelle was a fantastic listener, with a sharp mind and a thirst for answers. But she was even better at picking them apart. For ten minutes, Magnus described the intense process of combining dragons’ blood with ectoplasm, and the chemical makeup of both substances, while gently untangling the mess of her braid. When Isabelle demanded an in-depth explanation of the origin of both substances, Magnus summoned a jeweled comb and spent a further twenty minutes regaling her with the history of ectoplasm, an incredibly rare solution with almost no counter-effect. 

“It can bypass all wards, all magical enchantments, and it’s notoriously difficult to control once it’s released or combined with another substance,” Magnus said, pulling hair-ties from the drawer upstairs, and replacing them with buttons from his shirt. As he wound a new braid into place, he said, “It’s rare, though. I doubted the stallkeeper’s tale at first, of the Wraith Train, but there must have been a grain of truth to it. The lamp itself was likely ordinary, but if it travelled here on the Wraith Train, it would explain the ectoplasmic residue inside.”

“The Wraith Train,” Isabelle repeated, her voice thoughtful. “I didn't think that was real. I thought that was just an old story.”

Magnus paused with his fingers still separating thick strands of hair. “I forget how young you all are, sometimes.”

“You’ve only known us a while.”

Not just you, Magnus thought. It was always chilling to see his life become nothing but ancient history in the eyes of the living. Magnus had been here when the first Wraith Train rattled through the crack in the sky. Now it was a story to be told to eager children, and not a piece of history. 

Isabelle shifted until her hair slid from his loose grip. She turned on the step, her dark eyes flitting all over his face. Magnus tried to pull a smile up from somewhere inside, but his stock was empty. He had done this before, but it was always hard to come to terms with the quickness of life around him. 

“The Wraith Train used to roll through all the time,” Magnus said quietly. “It came down through the crack in the sky and swept over the Silver Street. Nobody living could climb aboard, but we could all see it.”

“Dad told me it was blue and bigger than the Gold Ridge,” Isabelle said. She mentioned her father in a fragile sort of voice, and Magnus wondered when the stories stopped coming. 

“Both false,” Magnus said, with a dusty smile. “It was fairly colourless, just like ectoplasm, and it was the size of any normal train—but of course, you never saw those, either. We really haven’t advanced far enough in this world, have we?” With a frustrated sigh, Magnus rubbed a hand over his eyes. “Apologies, my dear, but I’m feeling a little maudlin.”

Isabelle eyed him very carefully. “Would you like to blow something up?”

“Pardon?”

“It always cheers me up.” Isabelle shrugged, revealing that bright grin again. “Besides, we’ve done our hair and had our heart-to-heart. Isn’t blowing things up next on the list of sleepover-appropriate things?”

Magnus stared at her for a beat, before a soft laugh poured from his mouth. By the Hand, these Lightwoods were a catastrophic bunch. “You know what, Isabelle? I think it might be. Point me to the closest match.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading!! Every kudos and comment means the world! <3


	9. Little Shop of Horrors

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Magnus? Everything alright?”
> 
> Magnus simply shook his head.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think it is fair to say that this chapter is not quite as happy as the last one, but we have our second plot-thread to follow! <3

There was a shop on Counter-and-Fourth Street, where the windows sat misaligned in the brick. It was a quiet sort of misalignment, but anyone who happened to lay eyes on the shopfront would agree it was odd, when they saw for themselves how the funny little squares of glass just weren’t quite right. 

Magnus, personally, had missed the strangeness of this particular shop. It had taken him a while to find it, scouring a map of the Gold Ridge with a swinging crystal and an ancient thread, but an hour ago the extensive wards surrounding the building had peeled away like dried glue on childish skin. It seemed as though his friend had finally sensed his nosy, insistent presence and given in. 

Brushing up against his ankle, the shadow-child urged Magnus through the door. It had followed him since he stepped out of the front door earlier, materialising in the grey morning light. They were no closer to discovering who the shadow-child was, despite many hours spent pouring over books and lists of contacts. 

Magnus reached for the knocker, noting the deep scratch on the forest green paint and pausing. A quick glance proved that nobody was paying him any attention, so he stepped back down onto the path. The shop was in the richer part of town, but the people in the road gave the shop a wide berth, almost as if repelled. Magnus frowned. The windows, although still charmingly misaligned, were missing their usual brass candles. There was no sign on the door. 

“Strange,” Magnus murmured. “That isn’t like you, old friend.” 

Something pricked his attention. He frowned harder and crouched, brushing his fingers along the ground; his fingers came back stained with soot. Someone had etched a thick black scorch mark around the front of the shop. It ringed the entire building. 

Magnus set his jaw and bypassed the knocker, striding through the front door. 

The stench of chemicals was almost overpowering. His eyes watered almost immediately, and his nose stung as he breathed shallowly, choking on the oppressive scent. Cobwebs came unhooked from the ceiling in the stiff breeze that blew over his shoulders. The shadow-child tightened their grip around his ankle; it felt like feathers. 

“No sudden movements, sweetpea,” Magnus said quietly, stepping over the threshold. “Something isn’t quite right here.”

The sunlight that followed Magnus inside was the only patch of colour to pierce the murky gloom. Nobody had been inside in a while, that much was clear from the carpet of dust. The shadow-child slithered away from Magnus, creeping with uneasy slowness, but didn't seem to want to leave his side. He was remarkably fine with that. 

“Ragnor?” Magnus called. 

The only response was own voice, his words echoed back in a dizzying myriad of cautiousness. Taking a deep breath, Magnus knelt on the ground and flattened his palm in the dust. Plumes of smoke tumbled from his fingertips, and Magnus chanted in a low, drastic tone. _Find me here what lives. Find me here what lives._

Demonic languages were always worded awkwardly, but it did the trick. The smoke returned to him with news, telling him of fourteen houseflies, a mouse, and one snail that had slunk beneath the gap in the back window. Nothing else living lurked in this house, Magnus concluded, as he stood and brushed off his trousers. But that didn't even rule out all of the people Magnus _knew,_ let alone all the other threatening possibilities in the world. 

He lingered in the front of the shop, not straying into the back room, where the powerful stench was strongest. He cast simple exploratory spells that sunk into the dusty floorboards and oozed over mildew-stained plaster. Running his finger over the countertop revealed a hefty layer of dust and dirt, which he wiped absently on the velour curtains. They were equally dusty, and did not do a very good job of cleaning his hand. 

When there was nothing left to poke or prod, Magnus turned reluctantly to the door to the back room. It had been years since he stepped foot in Ragnor’s shop, but he remembered enough to know that none of this was right. He recalled a place that thrummed with life, where pulpy blue tunes crooned from the record player and heady scents clung to the tasteful decor. Perfume and potion bottles once lined the counter and every shelf, sparkling with the touch of polish; now their bulbous surfaces were dull and their contents had congealed into useless sludge. 

Ragnor loved this shop. He loved the decadence and the funny people that wandered through his door, and he loved finding that _one_ potion that worked wonders, performing miracles for people. His shop was a safe place for Downworlders, downtrodden or otherwise, and Ragnor took care to make sure it looked that way. 

“He wouldn’t have let it get this bad if he could have helped it,” Magnus muttered. He still didn’t move to investigate the rest of the shop. He was not one for delaying the inevitable, or for running away, but he was one for avoiding the problem for as long as possible. Some people would say those were remarkably similar things, but Magnus disagreed. 

A touch of cold around his ankle brought Magnus thumping back to earth, as the shadow-child snaked into place. Whatever was behind the door wouldn’t go away simply because he didn't want to find it.

“It may not even be anything bad,” Magnus told his shadowy shackle. “It might be a lifetime supply of candy apples, for all I know!”

The door burst open. Magnus threw his hands up, and a wall of blue erupted from the floorboards. His ankle felt ice cold from the shadow’s alarmed grip, but he couldn’t focus on anything but the harsh beating of his heart and the figure in the doorway.

“Show yourself,” Magnus barked.

“When you said you were going shopping, I pictured something a little more elegant. Chandeliers, champagne at every pampering station, a man with a measuring tape.” Jace sauntered out of the doorway and pulled on the string that operated the lightbulb repeatedly, producing soft clicks and a slight sizzle. “This looks like somewhere Alec might buy a bunch of sweaters and call it a day.”

Magnus glared. His shadowy shackle loosened, but Magnus couldn’t say the same for his nerves, which had bunched his shoulders. The shadow-child skirted back into the blackness that hung from each wall, hidden from Jace’s keen eyes. Magnus kept his arms aloft, his palms facing Jace, each one painted a fiery blue. 

“Tell me something about you, something to prove your identity,” Magnus said brusquely. “I am not beyond blasting you through that wall.”

“By the Hand, beating me up with bricks is getting a bit old now. Alright, fine.” Jace abandoned the string and held up his hands in surrender, but his mouth was tipped up in a familiar grating smirk. “You sing ballads in the shower, and you mistook Izzy’s underwear for yours the other week.”

Magnus paused. “I said something about you.”

“You think my brother’s hot.”

“That’s not about you,” Magnus said, but he rolled his eyes and relented, letting his magic seep back into his skin. “And it’s hardly proof. Anyone with eyes can tell that I find your brother attractive.” Under his breath, Magnus added, “The only person who doesn’t seem to be aware is your brother.”

“It’s about me because I’m one of the people with eyes, and I have to watch you leer at him every day.” 

Magnus frowned. He didn't leer, he _observed._ Thoroughly. 

Jace spun on his heel slowly, taking in the shop. “When I followed you this morning, I really didn't think you’d lead me to a dump. Got bored of our hospitality?”

“You always had the option to stay home.” Magnus pressed a hand lightly to the notepad on top of the counter. He didn't know why, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that something terrible had happened here. The place felt… abandoned, rather than not looked after. 

“Alec insisted. He might not know why, but he’s weird about you. I can’t tell if he doesn’t trust you or if he’s worried _for_ you.” 

Magnus couldn’t tell either. Seven days ago, Alec had asked him to stay. They had found a child that could control shadows, a child they were no closer to finding, and Alec had seen something in Magnus that he still couldn’t fathom. Each day since had been a whirlwind of replenishing the wards until they could withstand dragon fire, summoning books from the most prestigious libraries in the world to research Max’s rune, and studying the lingering, lurking figure of Alec Lightwood. 

It was rare for Magnus to walk into a room without Alec following him a few minutes later, with some guise or other tucked under his arm, and he danced between scowling every time Magnus opened his mouth and fighting back smiles at some of Magnus’s more witty remarks. Isabelle watched him bake and asked his opinion on new chemical weapons she had concocted recently, and Jace bothered him for the fun of it. Max was like a little dog too, sticking to his heels, though Magnus found his company warm and welcoming, rather than bemusing. 

It had been a strange week, to say the least. 

“I imagine it’s a mixture of both,” Magnus said diplomatically. 

Jace hummed. “There’s nothing in the backroom, by the way. I checked already. I assume that’s where you were headed next?”

“Are you sure? I was hoping…” Magnus trailed off, before squaring shoulders. He was not, and had never been, a coward, and he would not start being one now. He marched past Jace, who gave no response, and his shadowy friend trailed after him, sticking to the walls. 

The door opened with the squeal of rusted hinges. Magnus clamped a hand over his nose to ward off the stench, but it was everywhere. It clung to the darkness, and it sunk into his pores. Magnus knew he’d be smelling chemicals for weeks. 

“See?” Jace joined him, leaning against the doorframe. “Nothing here.”

And it looked like he was right. The workstation Ragnor used to make his potions was smeared with crushed herbs and half-finished poultices. Something green and viscous had spilled recently, and the substance was eating its way through the steel table. A chopping board boasted the remains of a turkey sandwich and several thin slices of eel, both equally green around the edges. 

“It’s not right,” Magnus said again. “Ragnor wouldn’t…”

“Ragnor Fell?” Jace stepped further into the room, holding up a stone that shone white. Witchlight, the Shadowhunters called it. A relic, but an undeniably useful one, if you were of angel blood. It would turn back to dark stone in Magnus’s hands. “The Warlock?”

Something flickered in the corner, under the intense glare of angelic light. 

“He was just Ragnor to me,” Magnus said, gazing with a creeping sort of dread at a shape illuminated by the Witchlight. “So much more than a ‘just’ though. He was more than a Warlock, more than the sum of magic and other people’s hatred. He was a good person. Occasionally, I was lucky enough to call him an old friend.”

If his voice went thready with fear and sorrow, he didn't think he could be blamed. Jace swivelled, his light casting shadows over his face and the dank walls. Magnus could not meet his eyes, could not tear his gaze away from the shape in the corner, but he imagined they were sharp with worry. 

“Magnus? Everything alright?”

Magnus simply shook his head. 

The room at the back of the shop was not as empty as Jace had suggested. Where the light touched him, Ragnor Fell was nothing more than a silver shadow, a mere shade of himself. His handsome face was translucent and fairly solemn, and only one of those descriptions was typical of him when Magnus had known him. 

“Oh, Ragnor,” Magnus breathed. “What happened to you?”

Ragnor gave a grim, ghostly smile. He raised his hand, his mouth shaping words that were too faint to hear, and traced something in the air. Between one blink and the next, he was gone.

The room at the back of the shop was empty, and Magnus’s heart had never felt so hollow before.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! I really do appreciate it!! <3


	10. Focus

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I was drinking that,” Alec said darkly. “You don't take coffee from people in this house, not if you want to live.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Important relationship development! At least, I think so. Hopefully you do too! <3

It had been days.

Magnus did not move from his bed. He sat stiffly, like a tree rooted deep in the earth, unbiddable even under the strain of the fiercest wind. Whoever was knocking would get tired quickly, and the numerous smoky locks bolting the door shut wouldn’t give way without his permission. They might crumble if he collapsed from magical exhaustion, but that was a few hours away. He had time. 

He had nothing but time. There were no answers, not to the blue lines on Max’s skin and the second rune he needed to unlock them, nor to the mystery of the shadows that danced like a child, and there were no answers to the death of Ragnor Fell. Magnus had an endless eternity of time to spend without his dearest, oldest friend. 

“Magnus,” Isabelle called. “Magnus, if you don't open the door, I’m going to burn through it.”

She wouldn't like what she found. Magnus let his gaze drift from his hands, resting uselessly on his thighs, free of rings and the glitzy nail varnish Isabelle had insisted he try. There wasn't much left of the bedroom; the furniture sat in warped, twisted piles on the floor, and several clumps of ash clung to his trousers. 

It had been days, but he didn't remember them. He didn't remember returning with Jace, but he recalled climbing the stairs in a flash, and the locks that materialised behind him as he slammed the door shut. And then he remembered nothing but mindless curses and the violent shattering of anything within reach. Then it was a blank, foggy haze, only broken by the endless knocking on the door. 

“Iz,” said another voice from behind the door, one that Magnus couldn’t quite identify. “That's enough.”

Isabelle stopped knocking, but the sound echoed through Magnus’s brain, beating him senseless. A few muted words were tossed back and forth like a hot potato, before the corridor went quiet. Magnus waited, but nobody else came to knock on the door or shout threats at him through the wood. He waited, but nothing happened. The room was still hazy with smoke, and the carpet was burned beyond repair, the remnants of a summoning ritual scorched into the frayed material. He waited, but Ragnor did not appear. He was utterly alone in his grief. 

Magnus curled up on the bed and went to sleep.

* * *

Magnus woke to a pearly darkness. The moon was shining through the singed, ragged curtains, shedding light on the destruction he had inflicted on his poor bedroom. There was a clearness to his mind that he didn't like. Magnus had half a mind to drop back to sleep and let the fog roll back over him, but he imagined Ragnor would curse him heavily from wherever he was if he did.

His legs felt as heavy as ship masts as he swung them over the bed, and his body weighed him down as he wrapped a stolen robe around his shoulders and slipped quietly downstairs. 

There was a light on in the kitchen, bleeding across the corridor, but the house was a study in silence. No ticking clocks or whistling winds. Nobody whispering or laughing or singing along to their loud music. It was as if sound was grieving too. Magnus heard nothing but his own footsteps as he crossed the corridor and stood in the kitchen doorway, tying the robe shut with uncharacteristically clumsy fingers. The light came from the underhead strips of white beneath the counter, illuminating a slipper-clad figure from behind. 

“Hi,” Alec said when they spotted each other, proffering an entire kettle. “Tea?” 

Magnus blinked at him. “Just the one cup, please.” 

“Coming right up.” 

Alec turned and fiddled about with cups and sugar. He was so quiet, moving with a senseless grace as he put the kettle back on the hob, clearly having only just filled it. Magnus had always admired Shadowhunters and they way they had complete control of their bodies. They lived and breathed to fight, or they had, before the Below World existed. From the way Alec had spoken of training and patrols, Magnus could assume they still did, even though there was nothing left for Shadowhunters to fight. Their enemies were long gone, but history manoeuvred their bones and shaped their bodies nonetheless. 

It was there in the steady curve of Alec’s back, and the way he stood over everything with complete confidence, even if it wasn’t present in his face. He commanded his body just as well as he commanded a room. Magnus suddenly wanted to see him in battle, bruising everything in his path. 

Magnus swallowed, and looked away. It was funny how there was still time to notice the new and intriguing, even in the midst of pain and grief—except for how it wasn’t funny at all. 

“I didn't think anyone would be awake at this hour,” Magnus said, moving to sit in one of the empty chairs. The kitchen table was overrun with scrolls, books, and loose sheets of parchment. Alec’s notes were a noticeable bright spot of order in the chaos; a notepad filled with regimented lines of writing, a pen lined up beside it, and a square pot of ink. He was careful not to touch any of the notes on the table, but he did shift a book aside slightly to make room for a coaster. 

“I couldn't sleep.” Alec shrugged elegantly, clicking a spoon gently on the side of the mug as he finished stirring in a splash of milk. “I thought I might as well stay up and look for information about Max. I’ve combed through everything, but there might be something I’ve missed. There's _got_ to be something here.” 

Alec and his frustration joined Magnus at the table with two steaming mugs of tea, one much darker than the other. A second glance told him that Alec was drinking coffee, but he wasn’t in any place to lecture about healthy habits. 

Magnus held his mug tightly, relishing the heat that crept into his skin. He could smell a hint of warm spice in the air, and it loosened something inside him. 

“That was you outside my door, with Isabelle, wasn’t it?”

Alec looked at him over his coffee, mouth pulled down. “She just wanted to know you were okay. Jace told us what happened, and what he thinks you saw. We left you for a few days, but when you didn't come back down after all the… uh, noise, she wanted to check on you.”

“I may have inadvertently ruined the carpet upstairs,” Magnus admitted. 

The numbness crept back in at the thought of those scorched runes. By the Hand, why hadn’t it _worked?_ He’d done it correctly. Even blind with grief and rage, Magnus did not make mistakes when it came to rituals and magic. Not anymore. 

“It was really ugly carpet.”

That startled a reluctant laugh out of Magnus. He managed to close the door on his questions, at least for now, and took a large gulp of tea. 

“I won’t disagree with you there. I’d offer to redecorate, but I’m not sure this place can be saved.” Magnus watched Alec shuffle a few notes, before pressing, “You’re not going to ask me questions?”

There was no change in Alec’s expression, which was the most peaceable it had been since Magnus met him. He shook his head slowly, lowering his mug. 

“I stopped Izzy from asking questions, didn't I? Look, I want to know what happened, and what you did upstairs, although I think I can guess. But I’ve never lost someone, so I didn't know what to give you.” Alec’s voice softened. “And we don't know each other very well, do we?”

Magnus’s mouth twisted. “Sometimes I forget that I’ve only known you all for a week or so.”

At Alec’s curious look, he waved a hand as though to wipe his last words away. He took a fortifying gulp of tea that burned the roof of his mouth and banished the mug to the counter, along with Alec’s half-full coffee. Alec merged his noises of surprise and protest together to create the strangled bastard of a sound. Magnus chuckled unapologetically.

“I was drinking that,” Alec said darkly. “You don't take coffee from people in this house, not if you want to live.”

Magnus chuckled again, and it sounded less wan this time. “It’s no wonder you couldn’t sleep. Your headache will be back with a vengeance, and even magical pharmaceuticals run low at times.”

Magnus wiggled his fingers demonstrably. 

“It’s already back,” Alec muttered, reaching up to rub his temple. “I told you, I can’t sleep. Not until I know Max is safe. But you should try sleeping.”

His voice softened again, but it was a strange softness, almost unsure of its place in the world. Magnus had a small thought that struck deeply, and the bitterness that had risen within him when he thought Alec simply didn't _care_ about a near-stranger’s grief started to sink again. Alec was only keeping his questions to himself because he wasn’t sure what was appropriate, and he didn't know Magnus well enough to guess what comfort he needed. He had tried to give him space, and kept people away in case that was what Magnus needed. Magnus had to quell a smile. He had never been treated in exactly the right way just because someone felt too awkward to go about the usual methods before. 

“I don't think sleeping’s on the agenda tonight. The smell of ancient, burned carpet fibres does a number on one's ability to doze, unfortunately.” 

Magnus lifted the nearest piece of paper from the debris and examined it. It was a map, showing the three sections of Below Brooklyn, as well as a woolly space off to the right that Magnus knew only too well. It looked like a cloud, and beneath it was a mountain where Magnus lived, but the map didn't know that. 

“I grabbed everything I could find. I don't know how much use it would be, but it can’t hurt to be prepared.”

“Tell me how I can help.”

“You want to help?” Alec eyed him, and for a moment Magnus was afraid he’d be found wanting. He drew himself upright and tried to find that old armour, the deflective pieces that didn't care what others thought of him. But Alec just nodded. “Alright, fine. But tell me if you feel… something.”

“I’ll be sure to tell you if I feel the slightest hint of ‘something,’ don't worry.” Magnus smiled a smile that was not quite a smirk, but could have been, in another life. “For instance, right now I feel a little bit like laughing.”

Alec’s neck turned red and hot, and he scowled briefly down at the table before rifling through his notes. “Fuck, it’s like talking to _Max_ sometimes. Here, start with this.”

Taking the papers handed to him was easy, but getting Alec to look up at him was harder. That simply wouldn’t do, not when those eyes and the understanding in them were the only thing keeping Magnus from falling into a pit of grief and despair. 

Magnus leaned over the table and caught Alec’s wrist, holding it carefully. Alec had strong hands, larger than expected, and the tendons in his arms tensed at his touch. But he did not move. He let Magnus hold him like he was made of glass, so delicately, and feel the fast beat of his pulse beneath questing fingertips. 

“Thank you, Alexander,” Magnus said, dredging up a smile that felt warm despite his exhaustion. “I tried to summon Ragnor that day, when I got home. And every day since.”

Alec’s hand shifted slightly, before he lowered it to the table, taking Magnus’s hand with it, still wrapped around his wrist. He didn't know why he hadn’t let go yet, but something wouldn’t let him. 

“Summoning isn’t difficult, as far as most rituals go,” Magnus continued, quieter. “Ragnor and I did it many times, many years ago. Granted, some of those didn't work either, but that might have been due to how many cocktails we drank beforehand. He never did have the steadiest hand at the best of times.”

Not to mention, Ragnor hadn’t known who they were Summoning. Magnus had been a frantic mess then, and refused to divulge any details to even his dearest friend. There was a simple reason why: the details would have driven him away. The details were the dark parts of Magnus that he didn't touch anymore, the ugly part of him that he didn't want those closest to him to see. He had refused to give those ugly parts to Ragnor, but keeping it all in was like swallowing poison and smiling while you did it. 

It was no wonder that they hadn’t Summoned anything with those rituals, other than severe hangovers. 

“This one didn't work?” Alec asked, drawing him back into the present. 

“Summoning relies on both parties; the Summoner and the Intended.” Magnus’s mouth twisted bitterly. “I don't know how he died, or why he is still here, but Ragnor _is_ still around, I know that much. I imagine he isn’t very far from me at all. But for some reason, he’s choosing not to appear to me, and he wouldn’t so much as shimmy into my Summoning circle.”

Alec twisted his hand around, startling him, and grabbed Magnus’s fingers with his own. They tangled loosely, and for one brief, glorious moment, Magnus felt a surge of hope inside. A sense of being held, even if it was only one small part of him. 

“We’ll work it out,” Alec promised him, in a voice so fierce that it was impossible not to believe him. His eyes were dark and piercing, but there was such a lightness in them that Magnus felt full of pristine air, floating. Then Alec let go. 

Magnus sat back, slightly dazed. “Thank you.” He cleared his throat and said, in a more sturdy tone, “Thank you, I mean it. I think it might help if I had a… focus, perhaps. A purpose. Something to take my mind off things.”

“If I want to take my mind off things, I train. I’d give just about anything for a bow right about now.” Alec grimaced down at his organised spot on the table. “I was going to do some research instead, but research is for when I have coffee.”

“You use a bow and arrow?” Magnus raised an eyebrow, suitably distracted. “Now there’s a focus for me.”

If he strained his senses, Magnus thought he could hear a soft scoff from the corner, but there was nothing there when he looked. There was nothing there when he shot a discrete cloud of translucent, searching magic over there either, while Alec rolled his eyes and reordered his thoughts. 

“It explains your arms, at least,” Magnus added, when the magic turned up nothing but an ordinary kitchen corner, and took great amusement in the way Alec seemed to give in, half-smiling at the ceiling in exasperation. If Magnus wasn’t mistaken, he seemed a little pleased. 

“How about we get you something else to focus on?” Alec asked the ceiling. When it didn't answer, Magnus gracefully stepped in, spreading his hands as though to say _I’m all yours._

“Dazzle me, Lightwood. What did you have in mind?”

What Alec had in mind was a back-breaking amount of research, and a spirit-crushing lack of discussion surrounding his archery training. The kitchen grew lighter and lighter around them, and the conversation gradually eased into something more comfortable. When Magnus caved and brewed Alec a steaming hot cup of coffee, banishing the pain in his head for a few hours, Alec smiled at him so intensely that Magnus actually coughed. He thought he might have punctured a lung. 

The peace extended long into the night, and in the morning, when the others woke, they had a beautiful, brilliant plan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you!! I know Sunday is a dead day, but I actually had motivation, you must suffer my words. Ta, people! <3


	11. High Expectations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Of all the places in the Below World, the Market was the most layered. It may have been a flat, weaving line in the eyes of most birds, but the people that lived and worked behind their stalls were vivid and dark in equal parts. You could find it all in the Market. 
> 
> It was somewhere that Magnus had missed, while he lay in his soft bed, dreaming of war.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Market time!! I’m weaving threads, very inexpertly!!! Thank you for all the loveliness! <3

“This is a shit plan,” Jace said.

It was hard to look dignified and disapproving with a limpet attached to you, but Magnus did his best. Alec managed to look disapproving all the time, and he could often be found wearing a pair of threadbare pyjamas amd tartan slippers (popular with Grandparents going about their daily ablutions), so there was no reason why having Max clinging to Magnus’s waist meant he couldn’t glare viciously at Jace. 

Patting Max on the head, Magnus said with great dignity, “It is _not_ a shit plan. And if it is, then it’s still much better than anything you’ve come up with.”

“Yeah, shut up, Jace,” Max said, his voice muffled. He had his head buried in Magnus’s silk shirt, and he hadn’t come up for air in a while. 

They hadn’t spoken since before Magnus found out about Ragnor, and nothing could have stopped Max from making a shocked beeline towards him when he came downstairs this morning. 

“Don’t tell me to shut up, pipsqueak.” 

“Technically it was Magnus. I was just repeating it. Giving him some back-up.” 

“That’s not quite what I said,” Magnus said, smiling blandly, “but it sums the important stuff up, don't you think?”

Jace threw up his hands and stalked to the mantlepiece, where he took out his frustrations by glaring moodily at a dust-ridden ornament and arching his neck like he was posing for the front cover of a bodice ripper. The light from the window smeared him in grey. Magnus gave an amused titter that hopefully went unheard, but Isabelle flat-out belly-laughed, and the sound was glorious. 

“Well, I think it’s a great plan,” Isabelle said. She was perched on the arm of a couch, diligently peeling a banana, surrounded by a sea of scratchy, sequined cushions. “It’s a chance to finally get some real answers. It’s much better than sitting around here and letting bad things happen to us, anyway.”

“We’re not _letting_ things—” Jace tried, but Isabelle spoke over him cheerfully. 

“Max, you’re with me, kiddo!” She winked, waggling her banana in their direction, though Magnus was the only one to witness the display. Max remained firmly tucked into his shirt. “Get ready for an adventure.”

“Splitting up is never a good idea,” Jace insisted. “That’s always what happens before everything goes to shit. Always.”

Max finally unearthed himself from Magnus’s shirt, leaning far enough back to frown up at him without letting go. “Actually, that’s true. That’s what always happens in my comics. The good guys split up and then they all get cornered, and there’s a trap, and the bad guys have the upper hand.”

“Thank you!” Jace said, rolling his eyes heavenward, in what Magnus thought was an over-dramatic display for someone who was still posing like they belonged on a plinth. “It’s nice to know someone in this family’s finally listening to me.”

“But we’re still going to do it,” Max said, with a determined nod. 

Isabelle started laughing again, and Jace viciously cursed, but Magnus was caught mid-laugh by the look in Max’s eyes. They were not just determined, or hopeful, or optimistic. They were packed with guilt and sorrow. There was a sense of responsibility there, the kind that weighed heavily on more than the mind. 

“Sweetheart…” Magnus began, wariness creeping into his tone. 

“I want to help,” Max said. “I’m going with Izzy, right? And she’s a pathologist, a scientist, the best in her field.”

Isabelle puffed herself up proudly, a delighted look of love softening her face. She smiled at Max, her banana briefly abandoned. 

“So that means we’re going to figure out what happened to your friend,” Max continued, finding the nail with disturbing accuracy and smacking it right on the head. 

The room fell quiet. Even Jace wasn’t protesting anymore, his mismatched eyes flicking away from Magnus when they met each other's gaze. Isabelle offered him a much sadder smile than the one she wore earlier, but there was encouragement there too. 

Years ago, when enough terrible things had piled themselves on his shoulders, pushing him further into the muddy waters of his mistakes, Magnus had closed his eyes. His past was one large horror, and he found he didn’t want to look at it anymore. There was a blur at the very edge of his memories; he didn’t quite remember it, but he had closed his eyes and slept. Slept for years in a bed where nobody could track him down. But not before he took every shard of emotion, whether it was jaggedly painful or sharply sweet, and buried it deep in his heart. Max’s words, his awkward and comforting hold, his sweet certainty: it was all painful enough to send ripples through that clear, calm facade that Magnus liked to pretend was always in place. There was no burying it, no drowning everything, His heart was suddenly a tender, buoyant device. 

Magnus cleared his throat, laid his hand gently on the back of Max’s neck, and surprised himself by wishing dearly that Alec was here. Alec would either say the right words to settle Max, to reassure him, or he would storm forwards into action, fixing the problem at its very roots. He was not someone that liked to keep still, Magnus had noticed. Not when there was something at stake, or when someone he loved needed help. 

“If I know you at all, then I know you’re going to try,” Magnus said quietly. “You’re a kind boy, and Isabelle is indeed very clever. I know you are too. But listen to me, Max.” He tipped Max’s chin up. “Whoever hurt Ragnor was equally as clever, and I imagine they will have done everything they can to cover their tracks. I don't say this to upset you, or because I don't believe in you. But I want you to know that I do not expect you to solve all this on your own for me, and I won’t be upset if you cannot… find anything.”

Find the _body._ Ragnor’s body. 

Isabelle specialised in death, she had told him rather cheerfully, as she prodded bones with clinical interest in the basement the other day. It was easy for her to pick apart a body and uncover the secrets of the dead, but to do that she needed a body to pick apart. He hadn’t looked very hard in the haze of anger and grief that clouded his judgement, but Magnus couldn’t imagine missing Ragnor’s body if it had been in that shop. 

Max stayed quiet. He untangled himself from Magnus but stood close, and Magnus left his hand where it was, hoping it would soothe the scowl growing on his face. He didn't think Max was angry at not being believed in, but rather at the thought that they might not be able to help, that Magnus would continue to not know. Max was angry because he _cared,_ and the other Lightwoods were too. It was a balm to his aching soul. 

“You can be my assistant,” Isabelle said, swallowing the last of her banana and flinging the peel in a wastepaper basket with unerring accuracy. She had a talent for many things, but Magnus liked her best for the way she cut through silences simply by being extraordinary in the corner, before moving to front and centre. “I’ve always wanted someone to follow me around and carry my stuff for me. Leaves me free to do the important things.”

Max turned with an indignant sound, and the two began to squabble in earnest. It was mildly terrifying, that he found the sound of Max’s outraged protests and Isabelle’s cackles and teasing quite comforting. His heart bobbed a little closer to the surface. 

“I am getting far too used to you people,” Magnus muttered. 

The only person who didn't seem enamoured with the scene was Jace. His jaw worked as he watched Isabelle laugh and catch one of Max’s flailing wrists. 

When Alec had suggested that they split up to tackle their mysteries, Magnus had been reluctant too. He was used to working alone, but the Lightwoods were a team. A family. They undoubtedly worked better when they put their heads together, when they had each others’ backs. And now they were splitting up, and Jace was unhappy, and Alec had spent the morning brief trying his hardest to appear unaffected when the truth was clearly the opposite.

If nothing else, Magnus thought, as he watched Jace—he would have big shoes to fill.

Boots on the stairs heralded the arrival of Alec, who marched through the doorway in full fighting gear. The outfit was tight but not constrictive, and so dark it was almost bright. Magnus counted three blades, and those were just the ones he could see. Hand only knew what Alec had hidden under that tight layer of fabric. 

Alec caught his eye, and it was like a shot of caffeine straight to his veins. He wiggled his fingers in a teasing wave as Alec’s gaze darted up and down, taking him in. Magnus returned the favour, lingering on certain well-packaged aspects. A wink would be a little much in front of the others, he reasoned, but there was no harm in looking. 

Without looking away, Alec said, “Iz, let him breathe.”

“He’s fine,” Isabelle said, with a silky laugh, as Max wriggled about in her headlock. “We’re just getting a headstart on his training.”

Alec rolled his eyes, and their connection broke; Magnus managed to redirect his gaze. Max writhed like a fish in Izzy’s grip. 

“It looks like he may need it,” Magnus observed. “Your kicks are inefficient, Maximus.”

“That’s not my name!” Max shouted, finally tearing himself free. His eyes were bright and his cheeks were flushed, and his scowl looked far too excited to be real. 

Magnus waved a hand. “Apologies, sweetheart. Maximillian it is!”

Rolling his eyes, Max stomped towards the door. “Can we just go already?”

“Have you had breakfast?” Alec asked, sweeping Max into an absent-minded hug that stopped him in his tracks. “Brushed your teeth?”

“If I say yes, can we _go?”_

* * *

While Max ate a quick breakfast and brushed his teeth, Magnus congregated by the front door with Isabelle, who was packing a box of gloves into her handbag. A steel container at her feet held the rest of her equipment, the locks gleaming. Magnus tried not to think about what it would all be used for, but the numbness settled in his stomach all the same.

“Alec and Jace seem tense,” Magnus said, although Alec didn't seem tense at all, in truth. Just tired. “Jace in particular.”

Isabelle scoffed lightly, fiddling with the zip. “They’ve been tense ever since Max went missing. I was hoping it might ease up a bit now that we’ve got him back, but they love to be difficult. Most of the time I think it’s just to spite me, but they’re definitely not making up any time soon.”

The door to the living room burst open, and Jace stalked out, eyes flashing. He barged his way past Magnus, knocking him with his shoulder, and stormed out of the house without another word. The walls vibrated with the force of the door slamming shut, but Isabelle’s sigh sounded louder. 

“Oh dear,” Magnus said lightly, catching sight of Jace’s retreating form through the frosted glass. Even from a distance, he was as taut as a livewire. “Hopefully our shadow-child won’t be too nervous to approach him.”

“Jace is good with kids.” Alec trudged out of the living room, head held high despite the world-weary look in his eyes. “He just needs time to calm down. Luckily, he’s got plenty of that.”

“Trouble in paradise, then?”

“Paradise is just as peaceful as ever,” Alec said flatly, his mouth twitching when Magnus smirked knowingly at him. 

“Hmm.”

The sound came from Isabelle. She glanced back and forth between them, as though an invisible line connected them, and she was simply following the thread. There was something curious about her gaze that Magnus decided not to dwell on. 

“Shall we be off then? Investigations wait for no man, not even one as handsome and sublime as myself.” Magnus clapped his hands together, not waiting for a response before he waved the front door open. “We’ll start in the Silver Street.”

Alec hesitated, shifting his weight slightly. “Max is still…”

“Brushing his teeth?” Isabelle rolled her eyes fondly. “Oh, the horror. I think I can manage, Alec. I’ve been dragging you and Jace around by the ass and ears for years, so Max isn’t a problem. We’ll leave the house in one piece, I promise.”

Before she could say another word, Alec tugged her close and pressed a quick kiss to the top of her head. He had to bend down to do it, Magnus noted, ignoring the whirlpool of emotions that built up in his chest. Isabelle hugged him back briefly before pushing Alec out of the door and grinning at them both. 

“Take care of him, Magnus,” Isabelle said, pointedly eyeing the slip of collarbone peeking through his unbuttoned, glossy shirt, transformed from a pair of old tights and a tie. “He’s easily lost when he’s distracted.”

Magnus decided not to dignify that with the response she was angling for. “I’ll make sure that we don't stray towards anything too shiny then.”

Isabelle’s knowing laughter chased them down the garden path, and out into the street. Magnus was content to walk in silence, the weight of that steel case weighing heavily on his mind. If Alec craved conversation, he didn't indulge his cravings. Their hands brushed several times as they strolled side by side. 

At the top of the gold ridge steps, three Guards awaited them. Their uniforms shone with golden brackets and buckles all over the black, thick kevlar; an upgrade from their tacky, top-heavy armour. Only their spears and sneers gave them away as they spoke lowly together. Magnus slowed to a stop before Alec did, dithering while the Guards muttered amongst themselves. It would be nothing to blow something else up, or cast a few misleading spells, but he didn't want to do anything yet if Alec had a plan, or a pass to get them through the steps. 

But Alec kept walking. Not through the gathering of Guards, or towards the top of the steps, but _around_ them. Magnus followed him, careful to keep his magic to himself, and nodded politely. 

Only one Guard caught the nod. They looked up, their face partially obscured by a curtain of dark hair, and Magnus felt as though he was being looked _through._ Not in the same way that Alec sometimes stared at him, as though he kept catching the parts of Magnus that shone through his mask unintentionally, and found them almost worthwhile. This was a calculating look, intended to dissect. He wasn’t afraid, but he quickened his pace, catching up to Alec and linking their arms, mouth quirking at how tense Alec grew at his touch. But neither of them stumbled. It was the work of a moment to reorder themselves, to adapt. 

“I don't mean to tell you where to go in your own home, but I think you may have missed a turning,” Magnus murmured, striding out of range of the Guard’s shrewd stare. It took everything in him not to look back. 

Alec relaxed, leaning into Magnus’s side. “Have I? I must have been distracted.”

“Fine, Lightwood. Be that way, but I’ll find out your secrets.”

When Alec laughed, it was short and sweet, more of a bark of surprise than anything. But the sweetness lasted. Magnus didn't know if he’d heard Alec laugh properly yet, at least not because of him. He immediately wanted to hear it again. 

“We’re five minutes away, and I’m not hiding anything. Just be patient.”

“Patience isn’t really one of my many, many virtues,” Magnus lied. 

“We’re _five minutes_ away.”

Their arms fell into a more natural position, and they strolled along the outskirts of the gold ridge, loosely linked and arguing. If anyone saw them, they would assume they were a couple. His heart beat a little faster at the thought; Alec struck him as an intensely private person. Even if he wasn’t closeted, it was unlikely he would enjoy the whispers that came with being seen like this, walking closely in the intimate soft-pink morning with another man. 

But as the seconds drew on and their argument turned silly, and Alec didn't move away, Magnus let himself breathe easily. 

When they came across Alec’s secret, Magnus couldn’t help but be surprised. A vast square of thick, lush grass waited for them near the cliffs edge, framed with tall fences of dark wood, the grain shining with threads of gold. It was orderly, but there was a wildness in the tumbling vines and sprigs of climbing honeysuckle. A few trees had sprouted here and there, obscuring part of the cliff, and it seemed to go on for miles.

“A garden?” Magnus ran a hand over the gate, where a plaque had been fastened to the heavy wood. He couldn’t read the angelic runes inscribed in the metal, but they sent a wash of coolness through him. “How romantic. You should have told me we were skipping the investigation, I would have worn something a little more date-appropriate.” 

Alec didn't flounder, which was a disappointment, but his eyes were sharp. Magnus wondered if he was seeing those possibilities, those frightening breath-taking possibilities that Magnus had noted with reluctance early on. 

“If this was a date, you’d know about it,” Alec promised, voice low. 

Inside the garden, the scent of fruit and honeysuckle was a blessed distraction. Magnus wasn’t used to being out of control, but he let Alec take the lead here. They weaved along the snaking stone paths, pointing at towering Gladiolus flowers and comparing Isabelle to the fiery red snapdragons that lurked in the grass. When they reached the trees, Alec leaned in and quietly recited the periodic table in Magnus’s ear until three women hurried by them, averting their gaze. 

“So sensual,” Magnus murmured, when their audience was gone, and Alec drew back. “I think I might be blushing.”

Alec rolled his eyes, and put both hands on his shoulders. “I had to make it look intimate somehow. I have a question.”

“And I have a feeling I’ll regret answering it.”

“Do you trust me?”

Startled, Magnus paused. His mind went still and his heart didn't beat, and then everything rushed into fast-forward. Did he trust Alec? They still didn't know each other very well, but there was more there than before. There was tension and a sense of comfort, all at once. Magnus did not have to fake a smile around him, and Alec didn't grimace when he walked into a room. It wasn’t a bounding, beautiful relationship, but he had rarely felt this way around someone before. 

Did he trust Alec? Not with everything, but maybe with more than anyone else.

“What I feel for you is not quantifiable,” Magnus muttered. He rolled his eyes at Alec’s searching look, and added, “I won’t be braiding your hair and discussing my miserable upbringing, but I trust you to do the right thing. I trust you with my life.”

It sounded big, but to Magnus, it was rather small. He trusted Alec not to kill him, or attack him, and to help him if he was in danger, and that was the most he could manage. It wasn’t his physical health he had to worry about. The day he trusted anyone with his heart or how he felt would be a very big day indeed. 

From the way Alec nodded, he understood. “Good. Remember that,” he said, and _shoved_ Magnus backwards. 

He expected it to be a small shove, a playful nudge. He expected to reel back theatrically and perhaps complain of a broken ankle. He expected Alec to be a gentleman, but clearly Magnus had too high expectations. 

There was a pause where nothing happened, no more than a breath, before the world dropped out from beneath his feet. 

The tree that loomed behind him vanished before his back could hit it, and Magnus lost all his breath as the ground rushed up to meet him. But there was no ground, and he slammed his eyes closed as air rushed all around him, whipping his manic power into a frenzy. He was too shocked to panic, too breathless to scream, and the world righted itself in a flurry of dancing colour before he could do more than gasp. 

“Fuck,” Magnus said, one knee crumpling. He managed to grip the cliff face before he hit the ground, righting himself. He blinked and swore again. He stared incredulously at his own hand. Then he sucked in a breath. There shouldn’t have been a cliff there to grab, but he could feel rock beneath his fingertips. When he tipped his face up, the gold ridge soared above him, unimaginably high. 

He traced the cliff, the harsh rock transitioning into smooth, cool gold the further left he went, and stepped absently out of the way just as Alec crashed into the earth. 

“You,” Magnus said, ignoring Alec’s deep, shuddering breath, “are going to pay for that. I haven’t decided when, or how, but rest assured, you will pay for that.”

Alec waved a hand, mouth clamped shut. He was decidedly green around the gills, and his hair looked like it had been combed with an electric cattle prod. Magnus watched him warily, worried despite himself. 

“Sorry,” Alec eventually said, forcing the words out through his teeth. “It’s honestly better if you don't know it’s coming.”

That didn't change the fact that revenge was now on the table, but Magnus let it go for now, since Alec looked seconds away from collapsing. He splashed gold smoke in Alec’s face instead, enjoying the way he blinked hugely at the first touch of cold, wet magic. 

“It’s like fresh water,” Alec said quietly, sticking his tongue out to taste it. “But it’s smoke?”

There was an almost childlike curiosity in his voice. 

“It’s magic.” Magnus smiled faintly, allowing more gold smoke to billow over Alec, dousing him in cool, quick relief. “Don't vomit on me, or I won’t be as forgiving. What was that, exactly, and where the Hand have we landed? Don't skimp on the details.”

Alec let the gold smoke trail through his fingers, still mesmerised, but he dutifully explained. “They’re called tunnels, if you ask Shadowhunters. They’re supposed to be stationary paths from one place to another, like an invisible, magical bridge. Nobody knows where they all are, or where they came from, and the Clave demanded we record their existence and stay away from them.”

An invisible, magical bridge. Magnus felt a trickle of unease. It sounded a lot like a portal, but that wasn’t possible. 

“I’m impressed. The Clave ordered you not to use them, but you use them anyway?”

“Just that one, and not very often. We don't want to draw attention to it. You’re supposed to report them if you find them, but Jace found this one a few weeks ago, and it’s never been reported before now.”

“So you _do_ have secrets.” 

“A few,” Alec admitted, grinning. “But you seem to know most of them now.”

Falling like that had been jarring, and he could still feel his power sparking in his throat, desperate to surge up and take over. But Alec’s words stilled that snappish demand for retribution, and tamed it into restlessness instead. His magic had always had a will of its own, although he knew logically that it was just reacting to his subconscious. When something happened, it very much enjoyed reacting. 

Magnus surveyed their surroundings, turning away from Alec as his eyes sharpened, fading to their yellow cat-eye slits. He saw the cracked, dry ground seep into a faintly silver, chalky brick not too far off, and he smiled. There was music in the air, faint but audible, and the charred scent of fireworks.

The Market was in full swing. 

Alec lead the way, though Magnus could have followed the spitfire sounds of chattering people and their laughter with ease. They took a rough path around the bottom of the cliff edge, trudging through sand and arriving with grit on their faces near the outskirts of the market. There were lights up above and stray spokes of wheat sticking up out of the far more earthy ground. Magnus tugged at scratchy grass until their footsteps scuffed the beginnings of carefully-laid stone. 

Gunpowder smelled strong in the air, as did sage, and mixed together it made Magnus wrinkle his nose. Alec didn't even wince. He held his seraph blade a little tighter, still hooked under his cuff but easily freed if necessary. Hopefully it wouldn’t be necessary. 

“Let’s keep the violence to the minimum, shall we?” Magnus murmured, his shoulder skimming Alec’s as they passed the silver-tinged columns holding up various wooden platforms, fifty feet in the sky. Some were laden with fireworks for later, and others housed lanterns and buckets of flowers. Fifty feet in the sky was the only safe place for explosives in an establishment like this. 

Of all the places in the Below World, the Market was the most layered. It may have been a flat, weaving line in the eyes of most birds, but the people that lived and worked behind their stalls were vivid and dark in equal parts. You could find it all in the Market. Downworlders in expensive silk and children of the angels lurking near the cheaper stock. Werewolf children prim and proper, vampires giggling and running amok, and warriors that glowed like that slice of white in the sky all mingling. Not trusting, but living as one. 

It was somewhere that Magnus had missed, while he lay in his soft bed, dreaming of war. 

“We need to stay out of sight.” Alec paused at the bottom of the stone stairway leading up to the Market. “The Guards were watching you earlier.”

“I didn't think you saw that.”

“I’m a Shadowhunter,” Alec said, deadpan, as he climbed the stairs and crouched down near the top. “I see everything.”

Magnus stared blankly at Alec’s back. With a scoff, he traced a thin repelling rune on the stone banister and joined Alec at the top of the stairs. With any luck, it would redirect traffic to the other stairways, though not without some grumbling and a few fuzzy headaches. 

Alec eyed him suspiciously when Magnus crouched down beside him, pressing as much of his heat against Alec’s side as possible. He shook out his hands with a pleasant, challenging smile and said, “Alright, Mr All-Seeing Shadowhunter. Have your eagle eyes found a way through the Market unspotted, or do I need to magic up some very large pots?”

Several Seelie drifted overhead on wings of silk, but their tinkling laughter was enough to loosen Magnus’s tense muscles. Seelie were not to be underestimated, but if they had spotted him, they wouldn’t have bothered waiting. He’d be halfway to the Seelie Queen by now. He lowered his hands, sighing in relief, and startled slightly when he caught Alec’s eyes. 

Alec was frowning at him, eyebrows all crinkled. “Why pots?”

Magnus’s elegant shrug encompassed many, many delicate notions at once. He’d practiced that particular shrug more times than he would ever admit, and suffice to say he trusted it to display his unbothered eccentricity. “Why _not_ pots?”

Alec shrugged back. His shrug was more of a fumbling, vaguely-distressed maneuver. “It just seems like a weird choice, that’s all.”

“It’s _weird_ to me that you’re choosing to focus on my choice of disguise, instead of the fact that you clearly don't know how to get through this Market without drawing attention to ourselves. Except, wait. That’s not a weird choice at all, is it, Mr All-Seeing Shadowhunter?”

The repelling rune was beginning to grow watery, as thin as his patience. 

Scowling, Alec turned to survey the Market. His eyes darted over everything and everyone, finding the threats and the nooks that went unnoticed by so many oblivious gazes. It was undeniably attractive. 

“Look. There.” Alec pointed, readying himself to spring from his crouch. “We can cut behind that wall of—what is that—_urns?_ Who needs that many urns?”

Magnus followed his finger and hid a smirk, shaking his head sadly. “Sorry, I don't see any urns.” Widening his eyes, he said with mock-sweetness, “Oh, look! Maybe we can hide behind all of those _pots?”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> God there are action scenes in the next chapter and I really suck at those, so please bear with me!! <3


	12. Quite The Icebreaker

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I wasn’t very careful when I found Max,” Magnus offered, with his eyes fixed on Alec’s assets. “I left behind a lot of rubble and the smell of burning.”
> 
> “If you’re waiting for me to be surprised, you might want to find somewhere to sit down. Make yourself comfortable, you know.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> !!! It’s been a while, I’m sorry! But I poked this chapter recently and now it’s here! 
> 
> Thank you if you’re still interested in this story, I appreciate it a lot even if I am very slow at updating! <3

Safely hidden behind the wall of pots, Magnus let his mind turn to other things. Alec mapped the area silently, searching for an easy target, a soft spot to exploit. They needed a place to start that would reveal clues, someone that would know something, _anything._

His brows furrowed as he thought of Jace and the shadow-child, of Max with his heavy determination to lift the grief from his shoulders, of Izzy and her grit-teeth and optimism. Their plan was fairly solid; Izzy and Max would take care of Ragnor’s shop, and Jace would track and trace the shadow-child, which had yet to reappear. Alec was convinced that the Market would give them a lead as to Max’s condition, but Magnus had a sneaking suspicion that they wouldn’t find it here. 

He hoped the others would have better luck. He thought briefly of Ragnor being found miraculously alive, despite knowing it wasn’t going to happen, and turned ruthlessly away from the spark of hope inside him. 

“There must be something I can do,” Magnus murmured, and Alec shushed him in response. Magnus stared. He had not been shushed in a while. 

Well, it was either to weigh himself down with depressing thoughts, or stare at Alec’s ass in retribution. 

“I wasn’t very careful when I found Max,” Magnus offered, with his eyes fixed on Alec’s assets. “I left behind a lot of rubble and the smell of burning.”

“If you’re waiting for me to be surprised, you might want to find somewhere to sit down. Make yourself comfortable, you know.”

“My point is that people witnessed me calling up a storm and setting the stall alight, so it’s likely that no matter how careful we are, they’re going to know who I am.” It wasn’t a point that Magnus was proud to make, after doing his utmost to hide for years. “They will remember my face, at least.”

Alec crossed his arms over his chest, abandoning his quest to scan every inch of the Market with his bare eyes. “So what are you saying? We just waltz through, asking questions, and hope nobody calls the Guards?”

“Of course not,” Magnus scoffed. “That would be utterly ridiculous. I’m suggesting that we waltz through, demanding answers, and _make sure_ that nobody calls the Guards.”

“That seems like a very subtle difference.”

“I’m a very subtle person.”

“Your face twitched when you said that,” Alec said, pointing at the corner of his traitorous mouth. Magnus arranged his face into something resembling stone, and Alec heaved a sigh. He unstrapped his Stele from the holster on his wrist, sliding the tip over the runes etched over his neck. 

“Stealth rune,” Alec explained, before Magnus could ask. “I’ll go along with your plan, but I’m not going to make it any easier than it has to be for them to find us.”

“Incognito mode.” Magnus snapped his fingers, grinning as his body was swamped with dismissive qualities. “I like it. Shall we?”

Alexander was fast. He darted through the crowd with fish-like slipperiness, shoals of bumbling people breaking apart and re-forming their frenetic clouds in his wake. Magnus was decidedly less fast, having spent an abominably long time sleeping recently, and the last week moping around in a sucking black hole of grief. But he followed Alec with grace, sending cursory flickers of curious blue magic spinning across the stone pathways. It slunk under the stalls and weaved between hurried feet like a cat seeking cream, and Magnus felt a tug in his chest when it stumbled upon something sweet. 

“Stop harassing the elderly, dear,” Magnus said, aiming a charming smile at a beleaguered old woman that Alec was standing over. He looped their arms together and dragged Alec away before he could impose the woman to tears. 

“She couldn’t have been older than thirty,” Alec said. 

“Well she certainly wouldn’t have reached old age if you kept looking at her like that,” Magnus agreed. “I’d be surprised if we stumbled upon more than a weeping pile of ashes later.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Magnus reached up and patted his cheek. “It means you have the face of an angel having a terrible day, and that strikes fear in the hearts of lesser men. Now come along. My magic’s been doing all the work, as per usual.”

The Silver Street was awash with shining apartment blocks. They rose up thousands of feet, blocky spires and sharp towers of gleaming glass and metal. With the sun beating off each vine-covered pane, they resembled giant shards of glass embedded in the ground. If a mirror in heaven had smashed and fallen to earth, the pieces that landed would have looked an awful lot like this. 

The line where the Silver Street met the Market was a tangible thing. It staggered off, more ragged stalls petering out until there was nothing but stone steps leading down onto more stone, this time much shinier, much more silvery. Flatter, more orderly stone. It was here that the air turned a tad richer, as though money was something you could breathe and taste on your tongue, and it lived in the veins of these apartment blocks sticking up in the near-distance like careless spines. 

“I came here with Izzy once, when we were younger,” Alec said, toeing the line with his boot. “It didn't look anything like this.”

People nearby were huddled in coats and blankets. Some had laid their measly belongings out on threadbare rags, desperate for a sale. Nobody was hawking their wares, not here. The shouts and gleeful noises from the Market proper paid no attention to lines, taunting the stragglers with what they couldn’t have. 

“There’s a fee to own a stall in the Market,” Alec muttered. “One or two sales a day is enough to keep most on their feet, but if the customers stop coming your way, eventually you’re pushed to the edge. And if you can’t find a way back in, it’s the Copper Sands for you.”

Many people who worked in the Market, and indeed in the factories plugging the sky above the Silver Street with smog, also lived in the Copper Sands. But they had been born there or raised there, and they had never gotten out, so they didn't cling to the line between this street and the Market so desperately. 

Here in the Silver Street were the Shadowhunters who weren’t as well-off, those who were still learning and evolving, and here were the Warlocks who were climbing the ranks, the vampires that hid their pallor well, and the Seelie who wouldn’t deign to be disobeyed. Here on the line between two closely-packed worlds were those that desperately didn't want to leave it behind, in case they never got it back. In case they learned to settle. 

“I had hoped it might have changed while I slept,” Magnus said. _Then maybe,_ said the snide voice in his head that sounded like Ragnor, _you should have stayed awake to help it change._

Magnus shook his head. There was no point dwelling on things he couldn’t help, no matter how much his dead friend scoffed at him for it. 

“You’re sure your magic lead you here?” Alec cocked his head to the side, staring over Magnus’s shoulder. “Never mind. I think I know the answer.”

Down the line, on stone steps that were beginning to crumble, a patch of blue light had swarmed a man wrapped in a coat. If he was bothered by the insistent prod of foreign magic, he didn't show it. But he did burrow further into his coat when their footsteps drew nearer.

“If you’re here to beat me some more, then get it over with,” the coat said hoarsely. “Do the other side though, won’t you? My left is more bruise than body.”

“Nobody’s going to beat you,” Alec said, looking rather alarmed at the prospect. On Alec, alarm was simply a deeper, slightly tipped-to-the-side version of his usual glower. Magnus was going to have to start a scale soon, for reference. 

The face inside the coat peered at them grumpily. The whites of his eyes were yellow with age, and there was something familiar about the shape of his brow. Magnus could see him struggle to peer through the dismissive qualities of Magnus’s features, almost as if he recognised him too. 

“We just want to ask you some questions,” Magnus said soothingly. “Nothing too intrusive, you understand. You look freezing. How about I light a fire?”

The coat stilled. Then the man launched himself out from inside it with a snarl, his desperate eyes swivelling wildly as he lunged for Magnus. Magnus was too shocked to do more than raise his hands, but Alec was fast. He kicked the man in the gut before he could do more than graze him with his fingers, and the man landed on the ground, slumped and groaning. 

“Friend of yours?” Alec asked, drawing a short blade. 

Magnus was still too surprised to speak. 

The man on the floor laughed raggedly. “I’m no friend of his. And he is no friend to anyone here. Whatever questions you want to ask, you’ll have to travel further than the Silver Street.”

“You’ll have to be a little more explicit than that,” Alec said, towering over him with a scowl. “You may not consider him a friend, but I do. I don't generally like people attacking my friends.”

“Even when your _friend_ attacks first?”

A bolt of horror shot through him. The man sat up with a grunt, still clutching his gut as though it might fall away if he let it go. His once-wispy beard was longer, thicker, although the thickness might have been dirt. Magnus didn't recognise his eyes, but that was hardly surprising; Mirrorstone contacts weren’t cheap, and this man clearly couldn’t afford more than the coat he’d rolled out of. Not anymore. 

“I don't think you’ll need that blade, Alexander.” Magnus put a hand on Alec’s wrist, pushing it down lightly. 

“Remember me, do you?” the stall-keeper said bitterly. He was a far cry from his eager, bumbling self. “What a fine turn of events. I don't suppose you’ll suddenly remember why you decided to frame me for an attack on the Guards? I’ve been racking my brain, but it makes no sense. You were just an average customer! And I was one of hundreds of stall-keepers!”

“The lamp,” Magnus said, swallowing around the guilt that rose inside him. “The one I bought from you… they traced it back to you?”

“Of course,” the man snapped. “Of course they did. Not stupid, these Shadowhunters, are they? Oh, they’re brutal and cruel, and they’ve more muscle than sense, but they’re not all the way stupid.”

“Hey now,” Alec said. 

The man shot him a dirty look, heaving himself off the ground. “Your people showed up as soon as that thing—that blasted lamp—stopped setting fire to stalls. They contained it, they said. Examined it. Found my sellers mark all over the _damn_ thing. Nothing to do with you, though.”

“I don't leave marks behind anymore,” Magnus said, holding up his fingers. They glowed blue, the prints cushioned by magic. It was more of an afterthought these days, and it helped him hugely, but sometimes the absence of something could be just as telling as cold hard proof. 

He had no doubt that someone of extreme self-importance, somewhere high up, knew the truth about who had really used that lamp. It was not a thought that sat well with him.

“Well bully for you,” the man snapped. He picked his coat up off the ground, batting Alec’s hands away when he went to help, and drew it around himself tightly. “Not all of us are so lucky. Next thing I knew, I was being dragged here. They trashed my stall and took everything of value. I’ve been sleeping in the gutter for the last six days just because some crackpot idiot decided to set me up!”

“That can’t be what happened,” Alec insisted. 

“What can I do to help?” Magnus said at the same time. 

Inside the swirling pool of guilt and self-recrimination, there was a smidgen of resignation. This man wouldn’t accept anything Magnus had to give. He already knew that. He had a list of excuses for his behaviour with the lamp, ranging from his sleep-addled brain to the stolen child he’d been trying to help, but regardless of which one he picked, it wouldn’t change the truth of this man’s situation. Magnus had put him here. It was an accident, but it was one that he had set in motion with his own careless actions. Magnus had done this, and however far this man had fallen, he would not accept help from the person who’d put him there. 

“You can stay nice and still while the Guards make their way here,” the man said, with a brittle smile. 

From his fingers leapt a single solitary spark of defiant ice. It struck Magnus in the wrist, immediately latching onto his skin with jagged teeth. Magnus cursed. His wrist hit his leg, his arm sagging as the ice grew and weighed him down. 

“Over here!” the man screamed, flinging ice from his hands haphazardly. “They’re over here!”

Alec didn't waste time cursing. He spun, his body drawn into a compact shape, and then lashed out with the heel of his shoe. His kick caught the man solidly in the chest, sending him crashing to the ground. Another kick knocked him out, his head lolling to the side. 

“Alexander,” Magnus said, appalled and shocked. 

“No time,” Alec said impatiently. 

Behind them came the clatter of armour and the slick sound of swords leaving their sheaths. Alec grabbed his wrist, the one that wasn’t turning lilac beneath a case of ice, and started to run. 

It turned out that Magnus Bane was not fast unless Alec Lightwood was leading him somewhere. 

They sprinted past a faerie with her hands raised to the sky, dancing around a green fire that was attracting winged creatures with bug-eyes, no bigger than a thimble. Magnus swiped his icy hand through the flames in a fit of desperation, but all it did was lick cooly at the hem of his sleeve, infusing it with thyme and sage. His fingers felt like they were being throttled. 

“If I lose my hand, I’ll go back and steal both of his,” Magnus snarled. 

“You can have one of mine,” Alec offered, before running up over the line and sprinting through a cluster of stalls. Magnus followed him clumsily up the steps, lopsided. The ice was heavy, unnaturally so. The noise of the Market burst into being as he crossed the unspoken barrier, drowning them in vicious scents and the scattered seal-like clapping of onlookers. Some squawked and dove aside as they barrelled through them. 

“Stop!” someone shouted. “Stop right there!”

A knife shot past his ear with a quiet snick. Magnus felt it shave an inch off his hair before burying itself in the wooden poles holding up a nearby canopy. The canopy was vast and stretched high above them, covering them almost immediately. Alec pulled out his own knife and all but threw Magnus out the other side of the makeshift tent. Then he waited, blade held aloft, and when the Guards were close enough he sawed through the nearest rope in one swift slice, dropping the thick canopy from the sky. 

“I cannot believe that worked,” Magnus muttered, watching in amazement as the occupants of the canopy wriggled and writhed beneath it. “That was ripped straight from a cartoon.”

Alec looked rather smug. “I don't know what a cartoon is, but thanks.”

“Nevertheless, I don't think it’ll hold long,” Magnus said, just as a blade ripped through the surface of the canopy, peeling it apart like wax paper. “I wouldn’t normally do this without a safeword, but desperate times call for desperate measures. I promise to be gentle.” 

Magnus raised his free hand, the one that was a normal human temperature, and painted shapes in the air. They burned blue and gold. Lengths of rope began to uncoil from the piles heaped here and there. Slithering like snakes around the canopy, the ropes fashioned themselves into a harness under Magnus’s careful control, winding tighter and tighter until the Guards were thoroughly trapped. 

“There were other people under there,” Alec said, out of the corner of his mouth. 

Magnus shook his head. There had been, but now they were snoring deeply inside the canopy, unbothered by the pressing heat and discomfort all around them. They would wake when the ropes got bored and slipped away, unharmed and none the wiser. 

“Pick a direction,” Magnus said. “I need to work quickly if I want to save my hand.”

He was panicking, but to his credit, he was doing so quietly. Internally. But that didn't seem to matter to Alec, who fastened one hand over his good wrist with infinite care and pulled him to the side. People were gathering in hordes to watch the spectacle, whispering to themselves. On any other day, Magnus would have pulled a sign from thin air and started charging people, but he needed to preserve his magic if he wanted to save his hand. It was always so disappointing when all the exciting things happened at once; it left so many avenues ultimately unexplored. 

“What is that?” Alec asked, jerking his head at the ice bracketing his hand. 

“Frost-Bite,” Magnus said through gritted teeth. “An inelegant spell. Very vicious, very painful, and hard to get rid of. I need to save my magic to remove it, but we need to get away from the Guards, so you need to find a way out of here. I’m trusting you, Alexander.”

He tried to say it with an airy lightness, as though it was nothing.

It was not nothing. 

“Stay close,” Alec murmured, before taking off. 

In the history of all maps, there had never been an instance where their makers stared down at the brittle edge of burned papyrus and concluded that one day, their humble lines would need to point upwards. People looked up all the time. Magnus was one of those people; a hint of starlight or a meandering comet was enough to soothe his battered soul for a mere instant, and he longed to lengthen those instants to moments, so he looked up often. But while he had the power to shift into a bird and tumble upwards, or summon a ladder of bone or coal from the ground, he didn't often act on it. 

The direction Alec picked was up. He hadn’t known Alec very long in the grand scheme of things, but he knew that Alec spent most of his time looking ahead, eyes on the horizon. So when Alec fooled him by running to the left, Magnus let himself be fooled. He leant into it, nipping at his heels. The canopy of Guards and their muffled curses grew distant and unimportant, as such things do when they escape your line of sight. 

They raced through the Market, scattering people left and right. Turning down a narrow row of tightly-packed stalls left them in front of a jumble of huts, each one red as rust and tilted slightly to the side. Magnus frowned, breathing a little heavier around the stitch in his side. He wasn’t unfit, but they’d been running for some time, and his hand was throbbing, the Frost-Bite eating away at his energy. 

The huts all around weren’t truly tilted. It was rare for a hut to be tilted all on its own, unless a particularly strong wind had taken offence to the double-glazing. But the ground beneath the huts was beginning to slope downwards, and thus the huts had leaned as one in a symphony of sympathetic slouching. 

“I didn't even know this was here,” Magnus admitted, trying not to sound too out of breath. He felt a little better when Alec inhaled sharply, trying to steady his own breathing. 

“It’s a new section,” Alec explained quickly. “They had to expand, since the Silver Street’s pretty much full. Forges and workshops for all the new factories popping up lately. There’s even a distillery over there, but we’re not going that way.”

“Shame. If there’s one thing that’s just not the same in a dream, it’s happy hour.” Magnus set his jaw against a pained noise. “And if there’s one thing I could do with right now, it’s a drink. 

This was where Alec’s true colours shone through; he switched directions effortlessly. The nearest hut was deceivingly tall up close, smoke pouring from the squat windows, and Magnus caught the clang of metal against metal from inside. His hand ached, pain shooting up the sensitive inside of his elbow. 

Instead of marching through the door and claiming a hammer to break the ice, or a quiet dark space for Magnus to work, Alec braced himself, before running flat-out at the wall of the hut. 

Magnus uttered a small sound of surprise. The arrival of new shouts in the distance jolted him out of his stupor, and he put on a burst of speed, surprising himself. 

Alec scaled the wall in three beats, pivoting at the top with his heel pressed into the lip of the roof to offer Magnus a hand. But Magnus was already climbing, using the gritty bricks to throw himself upwards, where Alec caught his rising shoulder and hauled him the rest of the way. It was unnecessary, but somewhat sweet. 

On the roof, Alec tipped an eyebrow in question. 

“What?” Magnus smirked as he backed away from him, ignoring the sweat gathering on his neck. “You thought I was just going to stand around and wait for you?”

It wasn’t the right time, but the curve of Alec’s mouth was tempting. He was thinking about those possibilities again. 

“No, but I thought you were preserving your strength,” Alec said, with a pointed look at his hand. 

“And I thought you were going to lead us to safety, but you seem to have trapped us on a roof.” Magnus shrugged, though he regretted it when pain shot through his arm. “It seems like thinking isn’t our strong suit.”

Alec hummed. Then he dropped down on his knees and beckoned Magnus over. Magnus sighed, not looking forward to scuffling about on the roof and dirtying up his knees for no _fun_ reason. But the shouts were suddenly less distant, and Alec was no longer patiently beckoning. 

Together, they crowded at the edge of the roof and peered down at the street below. 

“A year ago, the Hand tried to launch an aerial attack on the Gold Ridge,” Alec said, speaking fast and low. “They had to go through the Market to get to it, and dozens of people ended up in the hospital. The Clave introduced a grid of wards above the Market, like a roof, or a canopy, so that nothing could get through either way. The grid stops about a foot down from where we are.”

“A foot down? And yet we seem to be crouching on the other side of it.”

When Alec didn't respond, Magnus narrowed his eyes, pressing the back of his good hand against the roof. There was no tingle or shock from foreign magic, no signature flair that most Warlocks inscribed in their work. He sifted through their conversation and gave a short ‘ah’ as he arrived at a conclusion. 

“This place is new, isn’t it? So they must have disturbed the wards when they built these huts, this new section, leaving a gap in the so-called roof. And nobody’s thought to repair them since?”

Alec shrugged. “There aren’t many Warlocks left who can.”

Magnus stares grimly down at his purpling hand. There were more Warlocks than apparently either of them were aware of. 

“They can still see us though, can’t they?” Magnus asked, eyes on the thin stream of Guards racing towards the new section. 

“Yeah. But ever since the grid went up, nobody looks up anymore. Habits don't break just because a bit of the ward isn’t working, and most people either don't know about the break here, or they’ve forgotten.”

Magnus still held his breath as the Guards streamed past, like a thick row of busy ants. He wasn’t afraid of the Shadowhunters and their shining blades, their stark runes that wiped the fear from their faces, but he still felt tense. Holding his breath as Alec pressed against his side, fists curled over the edge of the roof, he waited.

The Guards disappeared, calling orders as their orderly line split and poured all over the new section. In a minute, they were gone. 

“Well that was anticlimactic,” Magnus murmured. 

“Please,” Alec said, leaning into him briefly. “Don't tempt fate anymore than you already have.”

Magnus snorted, settling back on his haunches. There was still the matter of his hand, which was beginning to swell at the wrist. A thin trickle of watery blood oozed down his arm where the ice cut into his skin. It felt like someone had blown up a led balloon around his hand. A very cold led balloon. 

“Alexander, listen carefully,” Magnus said, as they faced each other on the roof. “There is a very real chance that I may lose my hand from this, understand?”

Alec went very pale and still. “What?”

“I thought it best to rip the band-aid off. Be blunt.”

“You have magic.”

“I do.” Magnus huffed. “I love it, and it’s incredibly helpful, but it’s not a guarantee. You’re trained medically, aren’t you?”

“Shadowhunters rely mostly on Iratzes,” Alec said, staring him straight in the eye. “I can’t use one on you.”

Shaking his head in agreement, Magnus pushed some of his magic down the length of his arm, towards his frozen hand. But it wouldn’t budge. It stopped at his wrist, where the icy glove began, and bulged unpleasantly when he tried to force the issue. The situation was graver than he’d realised, but Magnus shook it off. 

“Alright,” Magnus said, feeling rather unsteady, though he gave a smile his best shot. “Can I trust you to staunch the bleeding, at least?”

“You’re not cutting off your hand,” Alec hissed, grabbing him by the shoulder. Magnus glared as he was pushed, and he continued to glare until he was lying on his back, feeling the hard brick dig into his shoulder-blades. Alec loomed over him, blocking out the sky. 

“How forward,” Magnus murmured. 

“Why can’t you get the ice off?”

“Magic doesn’t play nice with other magic,” Magnus muttered, staring at the slice of blue behind Alec’s ear a little woozily. “Especially not mine. And especially not with harmful, volatile magic. I can’t just break it apart using my power, and if I break it physically I might slice my hand off anyway. Not to mention it could explode, killing everyone within range.”

“That can be Plan W,” Alec said. “What about from the inside? Can you destroy it from the inside?”

Magnus shook his head, closing his eyes. “I can’t push enough magic inside to break it from the inside either. I didn't have any in that hand when the ice hit, and it won’t go through now that there’s a block there. There’s not enough room.”

Alec cursed. He heard several scratching sounds as Alec stood and paced, but he was content to lie there and shove the pulsing power down his aching arm, soothing the hurt while he thought carefully. If he cut it off, whether by magic or with one of Alec’s many blades, he’d survive it. He might even be able to reattach it later. And at the very least, he’d have most of his arm to work with. If he left it too long, he might lose more than just his hand. 

Theoretically, Magnus’s magic was inside him all the time. It was in his blood and his soul and his very being. If it ever left him, it would leave a hole so big that the world could disappear inside of it. And that terrified him, the thought of being so dependent on something that might one day vanish, taken from him. It terrified him, what he could do with magic if he chose to. The combination had made him a little lax when it came to distance between him and his magic, and so it tended to wander. 

The sound of scratchy, worried footsteps stopped suddenly. 

“What if you don't need to put the magic in your hand?” Alec said. “You said you can change into animals—you could even be a bird if you want to, can’t you?”

“I don't see how a wing is going to help me. If I damage a wing, I’ll still have a damaged wing when I change it back into a hand. It just won’t look like a wing anymore.” Magnus sat up suddenly with a soft noise of understanding, meeting Alec’s eyes. “Oh. You may have a point there, actually.”

He had told Alec the other night about how he had saved Max, and how he had used the lamp to distract the Guards from their arrival. Briefly, he’d lamented the fact that he couldn’t just turn into a bird without frying himself on unfamiliar wards, and Alec had been fascinated. 

“You said that if you think of the body as one entire structure, capable of being dismantled, then you could change the shape of it.” Alec knelt beside him, putting one desperate hand on his knee. “Try it now. Think of your arm as one structure. Make it—I don't know, smaller, or something. You don't have to change it into something else, but if you make it so that it’s not _part_ of all this icy stuff, or part of the rest of your body, you should be able to get away, right?”

It was a little more complicated than that, but at the same time, it was so very simple. Magnus straightened his back. With some difficulty, he gathered his magic near the cuff of his shoulder, where it pulsed under his skin. He sensed the tissue and muscle, the tender flesh that protected his pounding blood. Then he cut off the rest of his body, building little gates between the shoulder and the curve of his pectoral. He trapped his magic. 

His magic didn't like that. Tiny fists beat against the barrier between his shoulder and the rest of his body. Sucking in a breath, Magnus felt himself sink to one side, much like the hut they sat on. He kept himself upright by sheer force of will and carried on, brows furrowed. 

It would be easier to let his arm deflate, sort of like a sausage link with all the meat squeezed out of it inch by inch, but that was too gradual. He would need to do it all at once. He would need his arm to shrink from shoulder to fingertip at exactly the same time, or his magic would get caught in the same place it had before. And that would be infinitely worse with a forearm as thin and wispy as a baby’s arm, holding up a block of ice.

“One structure,” Magnus murmured. “One very painful structure.”

Alec made a sound, almost of protest, as he crept a little closer and propped Magnus up, chest to his shoulder, as though he wanted this to be painless and easy. Magnus could feel the heat of him like a blanket, pressed against him. Alec wrapped a hand around Magnus’s wrist, where frost was beginning to gather as the other Warlock’s magic crept upwards, so very slowly. 

“Take what you need,” Alec said softly, speaking into his ear. “Magnus, take whatever you need.” 

With a little gasp, Magnus drew the strength from Alec’s body. He was careful not to take all of it, though it felt like there was endless depths there, and even if he kept scooping with all his might he’d never reach the bottom of that well of kindness. He drew in enough strength that his magic flooded down from his shoulder, invigorated, and barrelled through the flimsy wrist bones straining under the clasp of ice. 

Heat gathered behind Magnus’s eyes, sharp and deadly. Alec gripped him very tightly. 

The icy glove dropped to the rooftop with a clatter. It shivered for a single second, a lump of bright white ice that glinted frostily. Then all at once it melted, leaving a wet patch the size of a plate that was still oozing outwards when Alec pressed a small kiss to Magnus’s hair.

Magnus didn't think he was supposed to feel it, but he did. He felt it everywhere. He opened his eyes and gave a shaky sigh of relief, though he tried very hard not to look at his arm. He had a feeling all relief would die in his throat when faced with the spindly, translucent creature his arm had become. 

“That was good,” Alec said nonsensically, in rough tones. “You did good, Magnus.”

Still catching his breath, Magnus patted him, but the pat didn't quite land. 

“Uh,” Alec said, from somewhere above him. It was just one word, barely even a sound, and yet it was soaked in an oceans worth of discomfort. “If you—uh—want to take anything else, you know, to deal with _that_… I’m sure I have some strength to spare.”

The tactful beating-around-the-bush elicited a soft snort of laughter from his chest. Magnus raised his arm thoughtfully, twisting his hand in the air. It resembled a long noodle, fleshy and pencil-thin, and not much else. If someone had served it to him with spaghetti sauce, he wouldn’t have questioned it, so it was no wonder that Alec sounded like he wanted to run. Exhausted, he tipped his head back and aimed a grin at Alec, whose soft, startled smile did not last long in return.

“Oh, I don't know. I was thinking of keeping it like this. It’s one hell of an icebreaker, don't you think?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really just wanted to make a pun.


	13. Cliffs Have Bad Days Too

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The gargoyles winked, a shared blink. “We won’t tell! We won’t tell! Go be with each other, go on! Through here, where they won’t see, where they won’t look! Go enjoy the night!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> !!! Thanks for the lovely response to the last chapter! Some subtle sexuality talk here because they are very in love and just don’t know it

“I should have known he was a Warlock,” Magnus said. 

The sun was beginning to sink, turning the heavens a heavy gold. It illuminated the thin, shimmering lines in the air, places where the broken wards still lingered. If he focused, Magnus could sense a signature woven into the broken web of magic, but it was so faded and dusty that it was impossible to identify. The ragged holes in the magic grew even more obvious as the evening drew in. 

“Oh yeah?” Alec drawled. “Are you psychic now too?”

“Only on Sundays.”

“It’s a Thursday, so you can drop that guilt down there.” Alec gestured at the ground, some thirty feet beneath them. 

One of Alec’s long legs was drawn up, bent at the knee while the other swung free over the lip of the roof. The light swallowed him up, edging him in a dusky shadow. Magnus followed the sharp line of his jaw, the intent glimmer of his eyes as they searched for passing guards, and wondered if he should be allowed to look at such a thing. People like Alec were art, plain and simple; incandescent, and out of reach. 

Alec said, “You couldn’t have known he was a Warlock anymore than you could have known he’d be blamed for what happened,” in his usual blunt manner, and the illusion wavered. 

“I should have known.” Magnus cursed under his breath. “I _would_ have known, years ago. I knew every Warlock, every Downworlder. I was friends with many of them. We were always a team, a family spread out over the surface of the world.”

“But like you said,” Alec pointed out, “that was years ago. You _can’t_ know everyone in the world, Magnus.”

But Magnus used to. He used to know his people, the ones he swore to protect. He used to dance each evening in the Market with werewolves and vampires alike. He ferried them to Ragnor’s shop under the watchful eyes of suspicious Shadowhunters, who had grown less lenient by then. He could be found on the street corners, on the harbour-fronts, in the hubbub of excited sales and in the Institutes made of gold. 

He might not have known that man, that Warlock, but he would have known his family. He would have seen him grow up, and he would have popped by every few years to see if they needed help. That was the wonder and the burden of Immortals: they were always there. Or they should have been. 

If Magnus had known this man, he would have known to dodge his magic. He wouldn’t have gotten hurt. He wouldn’t have almost gotten Alec hurt—if that frost had bitten Alec’s hand, he would have lost it, without a doubt. The thought sent fear shooting through him, colder than any ice. 

If Magnus hadn’t sprinted away from his problems years ago, maybe none of this would have happened. 

He rubbed his cold, numb hand, and said, “I didn't even know his name.”

Alec didn’t try to reassure him. He didn’t try to take away the rest of his guilt. They sat together quietly on the roof, waiting for some unspoken moment, and leaned into the warmth of each other. It was nice to have Alec there, a comforting presence even in his silence. 

“Maybe what you did was thoughtless, but it wasn’t cruel,” Alec said suddenly. “Nobody thinks that buying a lamp and saving a kid with it might get someone else hurt later. That guy was bitter and angry, and maybe he had a right to be, but that doesn’t excuse what he did. He was angry at the wrong person. If you ask me, the people you should both be blaming are the Shadowhunters.” 

He wouldn’t meet Magnus’s gaze. Alec got gracefully to his feet, sharp eyes fixed on a single flickering flame down on the street.

“They’re changing the Guards,” Alec said. “We should move now.” 

“It’s a shame there aren’t any other tunnels nearby,” Magnus lamented. “We could drop from here right to the Copper Sands and nobody would be any the wiser. Almost like a portal.”

“There might be some, but we never come this far down. We don't know which ones might be under surveillance.”

“I know, Alexander.” Magnus rolled his eyes, reluctantly fond. “I was just complaining about my aching feet. And my aching hand.”

Leaping from the roof was exhilarating. Magnus’s magic had been waning from the effort of shrinking and regrowing his arm, but the rest had let him breathe and recuperate. When he spread his arms at the height of his jump, shadow-black wings sprouted from his skin with ease. 

They were viscous and thick, dripping with gold magic that gathered like molten gold on the wing-tips, and he hid a quiet laugh in the night as he landed in the shadow of an alleyway. Alec followed him down, his boots pressing silently in the dirt, and turned to stare at Magnus’s wings. The thick swallow was visible in the bob of his throat. 

“You could have just climbed.”

“Oh, so you don't like them?” Magnus murmured, letting the wings tower over them like treetops. “That’s a shame. I think you’d suit a pair.”

“We don't have time to find out.” Alec sounded genuinely put-out. 

Magnus let the wings dissipate into thin zephyrs that ruffled Alec’s hair. There were curls forming at the front, from where his hair had gotten damp earlier. Magnus had to keep himself in check; it was too forward to touch someone's hair simply because it looked soft and inviting. 

They crouched in the shadow of a hut and waited for two twin flames to bob out of view, before darting along the path. 

“I hope you’re right about this,” Alec hissed. 

“I usually am,” Magnus said back. “He said we’d need to travel farther than the Silver Street to find answers, and what better place to hide than the Copper Sands? You said it yourself. Shadowhunters don't come down this way.”

The gate between sections loomed into view. It did not shine, but rather simmered in the late afternoon light, turning the tarnished metal pinkish but no less unsettlingly cold and clinical. There were gargoyles on either end of the gate, their grim faces turned downwards. 

“Going somewhere?” said the first gargoyle, its mouth opening with a shriek of stone. 

“You’ll have to wait for the Guard,” squawked the other, gnashing its greying teeth. 

“Yes, the Guard! The Guard!”

“We are the Guard,” Alec lied impatiently. 

Magnus spied a set of runes at the base of each gargoyle. Animation runes, and complicated ones too, layered over and over to give the hunks of stone something of a personality. It was an annoying, shrieking sort of personality, but it was there all the same. 

It was clever, unnecessary magic, the kind that Magnus desperately liked. 

A murmur behind him made him turn, and he caught sight of a man ushering his daughter inside one of the forges. His face was turned firmly away, deliberately unseeing. 

Twin cackles split the air. “The Guard? The Guard! Ha! Don't think so!”

“Can’t fool us!” said the second gargoyle gleefully. 

One beady eye fixed on Alec, and a grin cracked its stone face. “We know you, little Lightwood! Found yourself a boy, you did!”

Alec kept his face impassive, but Magnus saw the twitch of his hands. If he’d had a bow, Magnus had no doubt the gate would be littered with arrows by now, reduced to splinters. 

“Go on then,” said the first gargoyle, with mocking sympathy. “Through you go!”

Magnus stopped letting his magic simmer in his hands.“What?”

The gargoyles winked, a shared blink. “We won’t tell! We won’t tell! Go be with each other, go on! Through here, where they won’t see, where they won’t look! Go enjoy the night!”

“We’re not—” Alec began, but he shut his mouth again before Magnus could even elbow him. Grouchily, he said, “Thanks. We’re going through now. I swear, if you tell anyone—”

“You’ll grind us to dust, we know!” The first gargoyle turned roughly three centimetres to the left, and the left half of the gate swung open. 

“We’ve heard it a thousand times!” The second gargoyle copied its brother, and the gate swung open fully. “Go on!”

Grainy laughter followed them down the dirt path. The slick touch of pockmarked wards dripped from their shoulders like oil, leaving them exposed in the cool breeze. There were no wards here, not a hint of protective magic to be found. Maybe it would have been understandable further down where the Copper Sands truly began, but not even on the rocky slopes surrounding the Silver Street were guarded. 

Alec walked the stiff walk of someone with a secret. He walked like his arms and legs might betray him the minute he stopped moving, and spell out his secret in wavering slashes through the air. 

Sign language was a beautiful construction of movements, something Magnus had learned in a six-year period and that he still practiced on weekends, when he was awake—the other days were for other languages. 

But even if he hadn’t known sign language, Magnus would have known Alec’s secret regardless of his stiffness. 

Magnus said, “Those gargoyles seemed to know you well. And I want to ask, but you look like a little tin soldier.” He reached over and tweaked one of Alec’s shirt buttons, not quite undoing it, but rumpling the fabric it sat in. “I’d hate to wind you up.”

“That’s not true. You live to wind me up, and we both know it.”

“We do.” Magnus grinned, gusts of gold magic pooling at his feet, muddying the ground purely for the fun of it. “I usually have more self-control when it comes to asking uncomfortable questions, but it almost seemed like you’d had that conversation with them before.”

“That wasn’t asking anything,” Alec muttered. 

Magnus hummed. Alec watched the pools of gold run into rivers and spindly streams. All his watching kept his face carefully turned away from Magnus. 

“Alright,” Magnus said agreeably. “Which path should we follow?”

Alec looked at him askance, but he would find nothing but mildness in his carefully-crafted expression. The hill sloped downwards, growing steeper as they walked, and the ground gradually grew redder. Bits of rough, sand-orange cliff rose up and obscured the plains that Magnus knew were waiting for them, but there were paths woven through the rocks, worn into the dirt. There were fewer paths when Magnus first came here, but there were also fewer gates and Guards. 

“Just head down,” Alec said, stuffing his hands in his pockets. “It all leads to the same place.”

“You know that for sure? I thought you never came down this far.”

“Shouldn’t you know that?” Alec shot back. “You’ve lived here longer than I have. You’ve been alive for longer than I have.” 

The thought was a distinctly uncomfortable one that clearly stopped Alec’s brain in its tracks, though Magnus brushed by it easily. If he dwelled on the discomfort of knowing he would outlive the people around him, he would never know anyone again. He would turn to stone. He would drink himself into oblivion. He would hide in a cave and sleep. 

“I told you that things have changed since I was around. I’ve been sleeping for longer than I should have.”

Alec took a detour to clamber up a stack of rocks, fitting his feet smoothly into well-trodden nooks. He perched like a bird for a moment, trying to peer over the nearest wave of rock, before sliding back to his side with a sigh. 

“Why _were_ you sleeping?” Alec asked quietly. “It seems like an odd way to pass the time. I’ve never heard of a Warlock just sleeping for so long.”

Magnus inhaled deeply, the dust in the air burning his throat. Guilt stabbed at the inside of his stomach, and sorrow took up the call to arms. For a minute he could think of nothing but Ragnor and his calm gaze, his steady hands and unwavering heart, and it undid him. For a minute he felt his heart sink. For a minute he stood still on the steep incline, with Alexander Lightwood beside him, and pushed hard at the walls that threatened to collapse around him. 

_Why had he been sleeping?_ That was a secret that Magnus couldn’t untuck from his heart. He’d buried it so deep that he no longer remembered the path that lead to the grave marker. Even the slightest thought brought flashes of uncomfortable memory and a dizzying wave of blue. 

He knew why he would have wanted to sleep. He knew the events that lead to it, even though he kept them buried and untouched. But the terrifying truth was, he didn't recall what put him to sleep. He couldn’t remember saying goodbye to his friends, laying down in his bed, and closing his eyes. 

“How do those gargoyles know you so well?” Magnus cleared his throat, quickening his pace. “Seems like a strange choice for companions.”

Glancing back, he found Alec staring at him grumpily with a red face. 

“You could have just said you didn't want to answer,” Alec said flatly. 

Magnus laughed, the mingled fear and guilt that lived in his secret fading fast. It always faded fast. It rose fast too. One day it was going to be too fast for Magnus to catch it before the wave broke.

“That’s nowhere near as fun.” Magnus knocked their shoulders together gently. “Come on, Lightwood. Out with it.”

“What happened to Alexander?” Alec complained, rolling his eyes as his red cheeks faded into pink. “The gargoyles have always been there. I hung around the gate a bit when I was younger. Some of the Shadowhunters stationed there were... attractive, and I noticed, and the gargoyles picked up on it.”

Magnus bit back a smile. 

_“Don't.”_

“I haven’t said anything!” Magnus said, smirking. 

It was twenty minutes before the Copper Sands were visible. The slope evened out until they reached a flat outcrop overlooking the vast plains below. 

Many people didn't realise it, but the Below World was one structure. It didn't have extra bits of land in between blobs of sea, or bits of sea in between blobs of land. It could have been described as a cliff, if a cliff was having a bad day. You know the sort of day: odd socks and lost shoes; the hairbrush has disappeared into that unknown space between one room and the next; the coffee machine glugs away at a snail’s pace; and no amount of fiddling will produce the right key for the front door.

The cliff was a bit like that: bedraggled and studded with rocky, lopsided outcrops, it could have been called a mountain, except that mountains usually dealt in peaks and this one had a distinctive flat top. Cliffs were supposed to be the edge of the land, eaten away by the sea. But the edge of the land was all there was. 

An entire planet, a whole world, and the cliff and the sea was all there was. 

Magnus peered out at the glimmering plains, inhaling the chalky scent of metal and heat. The Copper Sands had been named for its rust-red appearance. If he turned, he could see the shining tip of the scythe that was the Gold Ridge, arched high above them. But of all the bits and pieces of the Below World that he’d made himself comfortable in, the Copper Sands was the only place where he felt understood, and so Magnus looked forward. 

“We’ve already taken one full day just to get here,” Magnus said, planting his feet firmly on the outcrop. “Should we be worried about your siblings searching for us?”

“I told Izzy to give us three days. Jace will feel it if anything happens to me.”

Birds soared ahead. They were thinner and pointier than the birds he’d seen so far, with plumes of deep burgundy, flecked with white feathers. They made a sound as they flitted past, one that Magnus could only describe as a high-pitched cough. 

“He’s my Parabatai,” Alec added, almost uncertainly, as though he thought Magnus’s silence had been aimed at him. “He can’t feel everything I feel, but he’ll know if I’m in trouble. The only reason he didn't charge through the Market earlier to save us was because I was blocking him off.”

“And I’ll be forever grateful for that,” Magnus said. “If Jace ever saves my life, I’ll have to end it myself on principle.”

He smiled brightly to show that he was joking. Alec rolled his eyes, but seemed resigned to their odd relationship, if it could even be called that. He stopped to drink from a pouch of water in his belt, and Magnus watched him. He kept forgetting that Alec was neither as old or young as Magnus assumed. He was over twenty. He was stressed and prone to scowling. But he watched Magnus’s magic with wonder, and he didn't shy away from the strange deflation of Magnus’s arm, which wasn’t something one could be trained to anticipate. 

“You and your family are the only ones that know I was sleeping this entire time,” Magnus said. If he said it quickly and idly, like ripping off a plaster on a three-day old splinter, then nothing bad could come of it. “When I slept, it was—it was out of grief.”

Alec turned sharply to stare at him. There was no condemnation in his gaze, only blind openness. It gave Magnus the strength to smile, weak as it was. 

“I didn't share my grief,” Magnus said, so very quietly. “I made a joke to some friends that I’d sleep for years not to deal with any of this, but they didn't know all of what I was talking about, and I don't think they took me seriously. You wouldn’t, would you?”

It would be a long fall to the Copper Sands, but falling was quicker than taking the path. While Alec kept to himself, Magnus readied the wafer-thin strands of his wings, plucking them from his shoulder-blades. They were still heady and wavering like heat on metal sheets when Alec joined him at the edge, their shoes touching in the dust. They would leave marks there—two pairs of footprints, together on the edge. 

“I might not take you seriously either, if you didn't tell me the important things and then just went to sleep,” Alec said. Magnus didn't even have time to be disappointed. “So tell me, and we’ll deal with it. Without sleeping. Together.”

He was going to end up with whiplash from the swift flip between emotions. There was a warm glow inside him that started vaguely in the roots and bloomed outwards, filling his chest with an airy lightness. He beamed, and Alec looked rather taken aback, but he smiled tentatively back. Magnus shook his shoulders, feathered wings arching over him. 

“Without sleeping together?” Magnus pouted. “That doesn’t sound like my idea of a good time.”

Magnus stepped neatly off the edge of the cliff. His black wings filled the sky, and as he dropped, laughter followed him down.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was a bit of a filler but it was also necessary information so! I hope you don’t mind! Next chapter is full of ACTION, perhaps. Thank you so much for reading! <3


	14. The Enchantress

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there are poisonous arrows, 'your mom' jokes, and the truth is uncovered, if only by one person.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi! have another chapter! this has action in it, and an original character death!!

“In Spring the evenings settle, and they say he comes then,” whispered an Enchantress, her gaunt face visible in slices through the parting flames of an eager hearth. 

Her captive audience consisted of three Seelie and a Werewolf, each too young to fully believe the preconceived notions of not mixing species. They paid no attention to what people had to say, or what they whispered about. In three years, when one of the Seelie would finally succumb to the whispers and leave a blood-soaked threat on the Werewolf’s doorstep, this pod of peas would split down the side, and people would continue to whisper. 

But around the hearth, in the hush of night, with the Enchantress’s coaxing voice in their ears, they were the thickest of friends. 

“A great earthen beast with wings like steel,” the Enchantress continued, her gnarled hands curling in the hazy smoke. “No, _molten_ steel. They say that when he is called, he stands above the earth and the earth streams upwards in rivers, inching closer granule by grain, desperate to touch him. The ground cracks and thunder shatters the sky. It would be remiss not to mention the way people kneel at his feet, so far off the ground, and how their tears mix with the filth on their ragged clothes.”

One of the Seelie children shuddered. 

The Enchantress lowered her voice to a mere thin whisper. “Blood pools on those Spring evenings.”

“How delightful,” Magnus said, stepping out of the undergrowth to a chorus of screams. “How much did you charge them to hear that little story of yours?”

One Seelie child whimpered. The other three children were frozen in fear, clinging to each other like limpets, which dampened Magnus’s internal glee somewhat. He liked to make an entrance, but not if it scared children. It was an unspoken rule of his.

“You!” barked the Enchantress, leaping from her cross-legged pose with a surprising nimbleness. She withdrew a wicked dagger, curved like a scythe and recently sharpened. There was an intricate design etched into the hilt, and a ruby-red glint to the handle, but Magnus didn't get a good look at it before it flew from her grip, much to her own surprise. 

Alec shot from the other side of the bushes and swept his leg out in a swift arc, knocking the breath out of the Enchantress. Her knees crumpled and she fell with a ragged cry in the sand, her dagger landing with a soft thump near the fire. Magnus summoned the dagger, snatching it from the air and sliding it into an invisible pocket, one that existed solely in this dimension and still had half a loaf of bread inside it, growing its one ecosystem. If Magnus had been aware of the bread’s presence, he might not have added the dagger to the little slice of hot, growing bacteria, but he wasn’t aware. It had been years since he bought the bread and put it in the magical pocket. It would be years still before he remembered it again. 

Alec put his foot on the Enchantress’s arm, pressing firmly with the thickest part of his boot. Magnus wracked his brain and then scooped up several handfuls of sand, and with a small burst of magic, he exchanged them for the ropes he’d left in the Market. The Shadowhunter cleaning up the scene yelped as the ropes fell from her hands and sand filled them instead, and she leapt about cursing as it slunk inside her too-big, regulation boots. Magnus felt a twinge of satisfaction without knowing why, and set about fastening the ropes around the Enchantress with diligent tendrils of magic as she began to wheeze and kick. 

“The plan was to wait until she’d run off,” Magnus chided lightly. 

“That’s the second time today someone’s reacted like that because of you,” Alec said, straightening up and dusting off his knees. “Considering you almost lost a hand, I wasn’t taking any chances.”

“Yes, but the war-cry was a tad overkill.”

“There was no war—”

“Kids,” Magnus interrupted, clapping his hands sharply. “It’s past your bedtime.”

The children, gathered on the other side of the fire, suddenly unfroze. 

“You don't scare us,” said the Werewolf, scrambling to his feet. He was young, with dirty hair and a bruise on his jaw. Play-fighting, Luke had said, was rampant among the kids these days, but Magnus still didn't like to see bruises on a child. 

“Maybe not, but your mom does,” Alec said. 

In the silence, crickets rustled from the bushes. Two had alighted with Magnus when he sat in wait in the undergrowth and were now clinging to the back of his jacket, so his silence was much more pointed. The Seelie boy snickered very quietly. 

Alec scowled. “I meant it literally. Your mom sent us to find you and say that if you’re not back in ten minutes she’s going to tell everyone in the forges about that magazine she found under—”

The Werewolf whimpered. He was practically vibrating with the urge to flee, and his Seelie friends relaxed at the apparently comforting, familiar sight of their friend in distress. 

“Idiot,” said the snickering child, a boy with vibrant red curls and curved ears. “You know you’re s’posed to put them in the floorboards.”

“You’re both disgusting.” The other two Seelie kids stopped clinging to each other and spoke in unnerving unison, their frosted skin glinting in the light of a half moon. “What happens to her? Will you hurt her?”

The Enchantress spat several insults through a mouthful of rope. 

“I don't hurt people,” Magnus assured them, using bursts of blue butterflies to chivvy them along. “We just want to have a little chat. Follow those, now, go on. Tell Luke we might not return tonight.”

He was taking a risk with the Seelie children, who were bound to the Queen rather than a pack. Not that there was anything he could do about being seen by them. But it still made him nervous as they scampered off into the darkness together; the Queen had never forgiven him for opening the Portals beneath her Kingdom, carrying her here against her wishes. She likely never would.

Magnus turned to face the Enchantress. She was glowering fiercely around her bonds, but her ferocity didn't hide how unwell she looked. Alec had a blade levelled at her shoulder, inching towards her neck with steady inevitability. 

“Why did you take my brother?” 

The Enchantress cocked her head to the side. There was an unfriendly glint in her eyes, but something lingered beneath it. Oddly enough, Magnus thought it might have been hope, and it sparked his curiosity. 

“She might find it hard to talk with a mouthful of rope,” Magnus pointed out idly. “Why don't we find somewhere a little more private, and have that little chat I mentioned, hmm?”

* * *

The Enchantress lived in a cave out on the dark edges of the Copper Sands. The cave didn't go into the side of a cliff, but down deep into the earth, where the rocky walls were harder and hotter than they should have been. One would think that setting foot inside a cave that dropped down into the ground would be like falling into a hole, and yet it wasn’t. The minute their feet slipped through the entrance, the world righted itself, and the hole tilted until the walls formed a horizontal pathway into the dark.

Of course, it wasn’t the hole in the ground that moved. It was their centre of gravity, and the perspective that often came bundled along with such things. Anyone who happened to peer in from outside would likely back away again, unwilling to question why there were two men and a bound woman walking about on the wall. 

The night sky was thick as firesmoke. Not a single star shone through the piercing blackness. Magnus stood near the mouth of the cave, leaning against jagged rock as he peered out at nothing but vast, neverending sky. 

“What a lovely dream,” Magnus said to himself. “To step out of the door and walk deep into the sky.”

“How did you find me?” The Enchantress growled. “I covered my tracks. You weren’t supposed to be able to find me.”

“You could spend your mornings picking ripe stars and drinking rain.”

“Magnus,” Alec said, his footsteps echoing off the stone walls as he drew closer. “You’re not making any sense.”

He turned with a reprimand on his tongue for doubting him, but Alec’s face was serious and pinched. His left hand, the one that wasn’t wrapped around his knife so firmly that it might shatter, landed on Magnus’s elbow. He squeezed gently. 

“Apologies, Alexander,” Magnus said softly, brushing lightly over Alec’s hand. “I’m just tired.”

He wasn’t tired. In fact, he’d never been more invigorated. Finally, there were answers within his grasp, and all he had to do was pry them from the pursed lips of the woman chained to a nearby rock. But there was always time, he’d found, to look up at the sky. 

“I’m with you,” Alec said. “Soon we’ll be home, and you can take up the whole couch if you want. I’ll even make the tea. But right now we’ve got a job to do.”

“I’ve never been referred to as a job before,” the Enchantress spat. She tugged fruitlessly at her bonds. “It could almost make a gal feel special, ‘cept you haven’t answered any of my questions, and that’s just uncivilised.”

“As uncivilised as kidnapping?” Alec snapped. 

Magnus patted Alec’s hand and slipped away from the night sky. He circled the woman slowly. She was the same woman who had held Max captive, the one who had raised her hand to him behind the stall, but that didn't mean she had to be the one in charge. There were no marks on her, though Magnus hadn’t aimed to kill. The storm he’d conjured had been created to frighten her. His lightning had struck the remains of her stall and sent it barrelling up in flames, and she might have caught a cold from the rain that fell like bullets, but there would be no scars or injuries. 

That didn't explain the haggard way she held herself. Her face, though the same as the one that had threatened Max, was not quite right. She trembled even as she glared. Not from fear, either, but with exhaustion and that same strange glimmer of hope. 

“You’re not in a position to be asking questions,” Magnus said, finishing his circle and crouching in front of her. “You took Max Lightwood. You used simple magic and cowardly threats to hold him captive. Then you hid him in plain sight, in the Market. You must have had a good reason. You must have wanted that particular boy, from that particular family.”

The Enchantress appeared to be thinking. Clearly a tiresome task. “Not necessarily,” she said, with a lie hovering in plain sight near the corner of her mouth. 

Magnus arched an eyebrow, spreading his hands. “It seems like a lot of work just for any old child. You even created a Safety Net, just in case he should escape.” 

The Enchantress paused. “And it lead you back to me, just as intended. I wouldn’t call that simple magic, would you?”

Quite suddenly, Magnus sat back on his haunches, brow furrowed. She was right. A Safety Net was complex magic, complex enough that even he couldn’t work out the other half of the rune just yet. He’d never tried to create a Safety Net, but he’d seen descriptions of the process in several old scrolls. It looked like a gruelling, taxing thing to do to ones magic supply. She was right, but she had changed her tune far too easily. She had proved him wrong even as she proved part of him right. 

She _had_ wanted Max in particular, but her magic wasn’t simple. 

“I call it committing a crime,” Alec said. 

The Enchantress bared her teeth. “What would you know, little Shadowhunter? All of you act so good and pure, standing there in your golden towers, lording over everyone. But you’re the worst of all of us. Magnus knows it too.”

“You know me?” Magnus asked, leaping silently from thought to thought like a frog with hot feet. “I’m flattered.”

“Everyone knows you,” the Enchantress said, her eyes narrowed to slits. “And everyone should. They should know who to blame when things go wrong.”

“That’s enough,” Alec said sharply, raising his blade again. “Why did you take Max?”

The Enchantress scoffed. “Because of _him.”_

To his sinking horror, Magnus found he couldn’t even be surprised when she jerked her head at him. Of course, he thought to himself, letting his mind drift to that blissful bed waiting for him at home. Of course it was because of him. Weren’t most awful things piled upon his shoulders? Accusations flew thick and fast these days. He deserved plenty of them, he was sure. But people he didn't even know seemed to have a vendetta against him simply for existing, and he was, quite frankly, tired of it. 

“Let me guess,” Magnus said flatly, “I ignored you in the street. I neglected to pat your dog as I passed——granted, I consider that a grievous crime, despite being more of a cat person. I didn't give you what you wanted on a silver platter, free of charge. Or perhaps I didn't answer your pathetic, trivial summons immediately, and that just wouldn’t do?”

“How could it be because of him?” Alec asked quietly. 

“I do have a front door, you know,” Magnus continued. “You could have knocked. You didn't have to resort to kidnapping children just to get my attention.”

The Enchantress’s smile was grim and twisted. “We needed to find you. We needed to draw you out. It’s not the first time we’ve tried it, but it was the first time it worked, and if that doesn’t tell us all we need to know about you, Magnus Bane, then I don't know what does.”

Alec sucked in a breath, but Magnus spoke over him quickly. 

“I don't know what you’re talking about, but I’ve had enough of watching your mouth open and close for no good reason. You’re going to answer one of my questions now.” Magnus paused, raising an eyebrow. “In the Market, you performed a spell. You were using it to scare Max. What was it?” 

There was that same flash of hope, swallowed by a glint of panic in the Enchantress’s eye. But she let none of it spill. She scoffed with confidence. “That was nothing! A minor storm spell.”

There had been a storm that day, but it wasn’t her that conjured it. Magnus recalled her thumb and the faint, watery flame that shot from it, and he smiled like a cat with a bowl of cream. 

“What does that have to do with anything?” Alec asked. Pebbles skittered under his feet as he shifted closer. “We’re supposed to be asking about Max and the Safety Net, not digging into—”

An arrow pierced the Enchantress in the neck. 

Magnus caught her, shocked, as she sagged in his arms. Then he surged forward and rolled, covering her with his body while Alec flung his blade up, deflecting another arrow. It glanced harmlessly off shining metal and clattered to the floor. 

“Stay there,” Alec barked. “I’m checking the entrance!”

Magnus freed one arm, absently noting the hot wet liquid seeping into his shirtsleeve, and flung his hand out. All around them came a grumbling, groaning sound as the cave cracked. Fissures popped across the ceiling, webbing that grew thicker and crowded until finally the rocks began to crumble and fall, slamming into the earth. One crashed into the ground near Alec as he marched forward, sword held aloft, and the sudden shock sent him reeling. Another boulder broke free from the ceiling, falling silently, and there was only a second to breathe before Alec was gone. 

“Alexander!” Magnus roared. 

Terror wrapped around every vein in his body. His pulse was pounding. He almost dropped the Enchantress, but he heard a ragged shout that had him gasping in relief. Three more arrows flew through the mouth of the cave, striking rock and burying their shiny points in earthy debris. Magnus hunkered down and _yanked_ with his magic. 

The ceiling trembled. 

Alec staggered upright and sprinted across the cave, sliding to his knees when he reached them. He was filthy and coughing, covered in dust, and his sword was gone. Magnus grasped him as the cave shook and wailed, pouring every ounce of protective magic into his touch. Chunks of rock fell away from the ceiling, slamming into the walls around them, but none came near. Alec gripped him in return, and the Enchantress bled beneath him, and Magnus could do nothing as the cave entrance filled with crumbling rocks until there was only one chink of light left. 

One last rock fell, scattering more dust and dirt into the air, and the light cut out completely. In the pitch black darkness, the small sounds seemed a thousand times louder. Alec’s shallow breathing may as well have been comets hitting the sea. His own ragged breaths were cacophonic. The Enchantress breathed too, but distantly, almost like an afterthought. 

Magnus gasped, inhaling dirt and spitting it back out again in a cough. He unclenched his hand from Alec’s shirt and tried to turn the Enchantress over, but it was hard to see anything in the thick gloom. 

“We need light,” Magnus muttered urgently. “I can’t see the wound.”

Alec fumbled at his belt with a curse, groping in the dark, and then a ghostly light lit up his pale, dirt-smeared face. He held the witchlight aloft while Magnus flipped the Enchantress over. She was still alive, her chest rising and falling in miniscule motions, but her eyes were foggy. Green threads were working their way up her neck, where a wide circular wound pierced the skin. 

“There must have been something on the arrowhead,” Alec said. He shone the witchlight around him, getting to his feet and squinting, but there was so much broken rock and dust that it was pointless. “If we can find it, maybe we can—”

“No,” rasped the Enchantress. “No, you can’t. The Hand won’t—” She coughed, blood bubbling at her lips. “The Hand won’t let me live, not while I have something to tell you. I can feel the secrets fading.”

“Medvoriam,” Magnus whispered, drawing back slightly. “I thought I recognised the colour.”

Medvoriam was a sinister poison harvested from the roots of the oldest sea-trees, deep beneath the water of the coldest oceans. Few people could gather it, unless they happened to have an unlimited air supply, or a dismissive attitude towards breathing in general. The poison stripped the victim of their memories even as they lay dying, but it did so slowly. 

“I want to know,” said the Enchantress, between coughs. “I want to know how you found me, really.”

Alec met his eyes over her head. He looked suspicious, and Magnus felt so too, but he decided to take the risk. 

“Castervine crystals only grow in the Copper Sands,” he explained, quietly, settling on his knees. “You had a warming pan with the crystals embedded in the surface, and I wanted one, but when I asked a friend, it seemed like they didn't exist.”

He had asked Isabelle, during one of their evening cooking lessons. Isabelle wasn’t a spectacular cook, though she made a mean curry, and she had absolutely no desire to learn. Magnus had taken to sitting her on the counter while he cooked, and when he commented on their shoddy stove, the conversation had chugged smoothly towards the dazzling crystals in the warming pan he coveted. 

“When I realised you must have made it yourself, we assumed you must live out here. One visit to the local werewolf pack, and they confirmed what we knew. The Castervine Crystals grow out here, in these caves, which is where I was told a strange hermit lived, someone that went by the name of the Enchantress and told crooked stories for a living.”

Luke, the Alpha of the werewolf pack, had been very forthcoming. Clearly he wanted to deal with the Enchantress, as he called her, far less than Alec or Magnus did. 

“Of course.” The Enchantress laughed weakly. “That would be how you found out, wouldn’t it? Some obscure, tiny detail that means nothing to everybody else. But it’s the big things that get you stuck. You are so very stupid, for someone so very clever.”

She coughed, and pink flecks hit Alec’s shirt. She had a minute, maybe two. 

“Do you know the second rune?” Alec asked urgently. “It unlocks the Safety Net for Max. Do you know what it is?”

But Magnus knew the answer to that, even before the Enchantress shook her head. 

Alec made a frustrated sound, tightening his grip around the witchlight. “You must know what it is—this memory poison shit can’t work that quickly, and you’re the one that put it there, so you _must_ know.”

“You said that you’d tried this before,” Magnus said. He could feel Alec getting more and more frustrated beside him, but he didn't take back his question. “You were talking about the missing children. Max wasn’t the first?”

The Enchantress laughed bleakly. “When children go missing from the Copper Sands, when they go missing by the dozen, when they are snatched in the streets and nobody looks for them, it’s because it’s a laughing matter.” She let out a terrible gurgling sound. “When they go missing and nobody looks for them, it’s because it isn’t _serious._ It’s not a Gold Ridge child, so why bother?”

She met Magnus’s eyes square on, the fog clearing briefly. “You didn't wake up for those children, the ones of your own blood, so we found one you would have to pay attention to.”

Alec’s eyes snapped up, even as Magnus dropped his gaze, a bitterness rising in him. “You knew he was sleeping?”

“He wasn’t sleeping,” the Enchantress breathed. “He was avoiding a war. A war of his own making.”

Her gnarled hand wilted in his grasp. Her breath stilled. Magnus let her hand fall to the floor, where it lay still in the dirt. Her whole body was still, as was the cave around them, and the silence they shook in. 

“A war of your making,” Alec said quietly. “Magnus, what did she mean? A war of your making.”

Magnus’s mind was moving at a mile a minute. He had trusted very few people with the truth of what happened before he slept. Ragnor had known pieces, and Raphael had worked out other bits, and in his haze of grief and rage and guilt, he’d told Catarina the rest of the puzzle. Ragnor was dead, and Catarina was in hiding, which really only left one person in the limelight. 

“Raphael,” Magnus said. “She mentioned the Hand, but he wouldn’t have killed her for—”

On the floor of the cave, the Enchantress began to stir. He stared, bewildered, and hovered one hand over her chest. 

“Is she alive?” Alec said, scrambling to his feet hastily. 

But the Enchantress wasn’t alive, and she wasn’t stirring from her sleep. Her skin was stirring, bubbling like hot cheese, and her hair was crumbling into nothing. Magnus reared back as a pungent smell plugged his nose. The stench of chemicals was like a slap to the face, and for a minute he was back in Ragnor’s workshop, seeing the ghost of his oldest friend fade from view. 

“Fuck,” Alec said thickly, covering his mouth. “What the Hand is that?”

The Enchantress disappeared, melting out of view. Magnus felt very sick as he stared at the slightly darker patch on the rocky ground. 

“We should go,” Alec said. “Can you move the rocks?”

“We don't know what’s out there.”

Alec made a frustrated sound, tugging Magnus to his feet. “No, but we can’t hide here forever. Whoever shot those arrows hasn’t tried to come through since, have they? Even if they’re still waiting, we can fight them off or run.”

“Alexander,” Magnus said, but he shut his mouth abruptly when Alec whirled to face him. His expression was stonelike, his eyes glinting. 

“No,” Alec said. “I don't want to hear what you have to say. Our only lead is a puddle on the ground, and we didn't get anything useful out of her. We don't know who killed her, but they’re probably waiting outside for us, and you want to stay here, in a damp cave that stinks? No.”

“Alexander, please,” Magnus tried again, holding up his hands.

“No!” Alec raked a hand through his hair. “We don't know anything about the rune. Max is tired and snappy and he’s still not _safe,_ Magnus.” Alec blew out a breath, shoulders sinking. “I’m starting to think none of us are.”

As one, they stared at the dark patch on the ground. The Enchantress hadn’t been particularly useful, but he had a suspicion as to why. 

“She lived here, didn't she?” Magnus said. “That’s what Luke said, that a hermit lived out here in the caves. She must have made enough money from her crystals to support her stall in the Market.”

“Or she was working with people who had a _hand_ in her finances,” Alec pointed out, rather too pointedly in Magnus’s opinion. 

“But she did live here, either way,” Magnus carried on. He dusted himself off and ploughed through the rocks littering the ground; some were larger than others, and some sported a pearly sheen in the cracks that had broken. 

“So maybe the information on the runes are here too.” Alec sighed, rolling up his blood-flecked sleeves. “Further in, then.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you so much for all your responses and support, I'm always thrilled to hear from you! <3

**Author's Note:**

> Why does the summary always defeat me? Never mind, it's done now. I hope you enjoyed it.


End file.
